


Wolf/Thunder/Body/Pomme Toxique/With You/Bound/Stroke/Siren/Cellulose and Marble/Yes, Tib/Trials and Tribulations/I thee wed

by eryth_oiuyad



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: AL4MB4eva, Angst, Bondage and Discipline, Breathplay, Control, Cute, F/F, Flowers, Fluff, Forever, Fruit, Halifax, Hot, I don't even..., Justice for M, Kink, Passion, Quickie, Romance, Sad, Scarborough, Slow Romance, Smut, Steamy, Sweet, Tenderness, Top M, Toys, Vows, We stan M, Weather, Wedding, a religious experience, booze, cerebral and sensual, playful, raunchy, the great outdoors, three in the bed and the little one said..., trib, two good kisses, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eryth_oiuyad/pseuds/eryth_oiuyad
Summary: she is not exactly the woman of all hours for me. She suits me best at night// in the stillness of remembering// did not take much persuading to get into bed//oh, how delicious// heighten the pleasure//...bound ourselves to each other...// stroke your ego// sail to me//one shall our union and interests be//spoilt behaviour//tragedy//absolutely not a definitive guide to choking





	1. Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Lera Lynn's Wolf Like Me, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 28th September 1823 Anne Lister visits with Mariana before breakfast, and sees her later in the day briefly. Anne writes her thoughts as she reflects on their relationship. The close of the passage: "She is not exactly the woman of all hours for me. She suits me best at night.".  
My writing is an imagining of their morning visit happening a little differently, fuelled by Anne's musing...  


I settle on the bench at the end of M’s bed for the sake of any incoming maid’s propriety, leaning against the base board, studying the art hanging across the room, the colours of the captured hillside washed out by the sun streaming through the adjacent window. She lounges amongst the sheets behind me, scratching her leg above the hem of her nightshirt, flicking through letters.

“…and so I ordered the fabric in the red and blue colour-way, and insisted she re-measure the proportions, I cannot stand the presumption of appropriate and flattering proportions, put to use the tape measure and fit me properly, save its clasp from tarnishing…’

“I think that very sensible”, I agree, exhaling carefully, landing my pout with a demure sneer, so as not to let on my indifference. 

“Do you have that concern with your tailor? Although I’m sure you don’t have the need to visit mine. You would sort it out admirably”. Our intimate conversations have a pace and short-hand now after years of talk. I know what she is referring to, as I Hmm in response curtly, my offensive manner of dress, I know she doesn’t want to start something but continue the undercurrent of our assessment of one another. A feeling of imperfect satisfaction, of souring contentment returns to me, as she settles, engrossed in a note, trying to hand me time to dwell on her observation. I don’t receive it but steer my preoccupation elsewhere.

The landscape painting depicts dark woodland in the right side. My brow furrows trying to decipher if there is a figure in the wood, beneath the dust and confusing sunlight of the room. The scene is otherwise absent of humans. I am annoyed that I cannot be sure what I see.

I close my eyes and turn my head and body to the right, temple to the post of the bed, leaning my arm over the base board. Diffused sunlight persists through my left eye lid; the darkness of the curtained bed informs the right.

I can smell M. The odour of her sleep, the musk of her body, the tang of her sheets, the dense smoky fog of her bed curtains either side still drawn. Curtains which shroud our evening transformations, cocoon her howls and isolate our sin.

I hear her stretch in bed making her ankles and toes crack, softly inhaling through her nose, sweeping the papers across the blanket, her mouth opens with a gentle wet smack, a little swallow. The bed creaks as she settles again. Creaks as it does when we nocturnal playmates pant and bite to taste blood and lay waste to sunlight sensibilities, pushing onto all fours.

I can sense the presence of her body signalling she has moved further down the bed to settle. Here is the tension of our new proximity, no need for my vision to clarify. It is not a buzzing impending static as it used to be. It is akin to the pull on the ocean by the new moon. For our years of talk I thought she had orbited me, but from my decaying humiliation I realise I hurtle an eclipse around her, pulling her dark water to a tidal peak before falling away, to the end of gravity’s tether. I the moon am only visible, only desirable, in the night, the dark, when I can be the only illumination, when I can illuminate her world with light of my own reflection. 

I am brought back from astronomy by her plush tight wet lips latching upon two of my dangling fingers, pulling the crook of my elbow against the base board. I clench my eyes. The pads of my fingers push into the meat of her tongue, her teeth catching the skin of my knuckles. I bring my thumb beneath her chin to steady her face as I draw out and push in, thrice. Her breath on my hand hitches and she gags lightly trying to rise in the bed with my hand to her face, fingers deep.  
We meet face to face as I open my eyes, my pupils dilated from leaving the darkness frightening her, she tries to draw back but I pinch beneath her jaw with my thumb to meet my fingers inside pining her by the back of her lower teeth, holding her in place.  
I kiss her eyelids, on one to shut them, a kiss on the other to keep them shut. I hold her, rising on the bench, stepping over the end of the bed, controlling her head like I’d grabbed the neck of a serpent. I stand on the bed with her on her knees in front me, wobbling in the sheets, her wicked hurtful little mouth invaded by my hand, my finger crooked into the roof of her mouth to push my nail into her tongue to prevent any foolish thought she might have to bite me. I pull the bottom bed curtain across the streaming sunlight, housing us.  
I train her backwards into the sheets, turn her still self-blinded head the way of my right hand, kneeling beside her, pulling her thighs apart, tucking her knee against my waist to expose her, keep her still. I push into her between her sweating tensing thighs, drawing out of her mouth slightly. I work between the two. Neither her hot breath nor wet curls slake my thirst. I don’t want to hear her words. The cloying wet smell of her makes me want to retch. I want to end this. Finish her.  
My M, my heart’s aflame, my bodies strained but God I like it. I close my eyes to keep the tears in. She moans and squirms and I lean in and bite her breast to still her.  
Mirror my malady, transfer my tragedy.  
She is spent and I release her. When will I be relieved of her, I groan as I careen into the pillow beside her pensive gaze.  
Sunlight cracks into our tomb illuminating our mutual grimace.


	2. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " In the stillness of remembering" the storm at Scarborough, September 1823

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and LEON's Dreams, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 14th September 1823 Anne Lister and Mariana are together in Scarborough and to quote "after some time came 1 or 2 tremendous peals of thunder & the heaviest rain I almost ever heard. In the midst of all this, we drew close together, made love & had one of the most delightfully long, tender kisses we have ever had".  
My writing is an imagining of their evening, fuelled by Anne's love of loving M.

I heave back through my journal to the Scarborough entries.  
What can I want? What am I looking to recall? Injury? 

I am consumed by the sound of my heart thumping in my ears as I scrabble amongst the pages, the edges of my vision blurring and at reading the date of my summary I am immersed into the sounds of the night of the storm...  
The unrealised tension as we lay dozing, creeping closer unconsciously as the room chilled and went silent, candles flaming long and still, the air around the building being drawn into the head of the storm creating a vacuum of silence. My pocket watch ticked to itself. Then the draw reversed as the gale began the creaking and whistling, the occasional tapping in the darkness of glass being struck, stirring us, rousing us to sit in expectation before crashing back down, I pulled her by the waist as she murmured “weather”.  
Lightning illuminated our bed, our legs moving beneath the blankets, shadows rolling as we were turning to one another, knees meeting. The strain of the building was audible, nature was talking to us, pressing upon the structure, rattling the eaves, a groan from the trusses in the roof, upon the gale from the distance the sound of plant pots smashing and a yard door slamming, the dashing upon the glass accelerating like the drum rudiment signalling attack.  
All was cut suddenly by thunder so loud M’s mouth jumped hard against mine. I embraced her in comfort, her hips canting against mine as the onslaught of rain began, the noise filling every space and her tongue pushing against mine. My head felt full of water in the dark, lurched like a full bucket into the pillow beside M’s neck to kiss there, the rest of me swimming between her limbs and the sheets and night gown. Her wrists caught my shoulder blades, and thighs slid along mine. I pressed into her finally as thunder again seized the room. It felt we were submerged such was the volume of the storm, deaf to each other, movements languid and slow, my senses numb but for her warm moving beneath me. Here I crouched rocking into her, the thudding sheets of rain holding us together an indeterminate time, till I felt her thighs shake and lax. After pausing to kiss, I began rocking her again. She held my face, and the rain had ebbed such that her voice could be heard, calling my name into a moan before her legs again shook as her pelvis rolled, her rib cage rose and her face turned tight. I followed this passing quake with my hands, continuing up her arms to take her hands from my face to kiss her palms.

I began to swim from between limbs to beside her, the blanket sliding away such that she had to grab it with one hand, the other cradling my face as she mouthed “Don’t leave me yet”. We drew the blanket close around us, she kicked against the mattress to move heavily against me into my arms, a gentle quake still in her rib cage as I held her. We stilled to sleep as the rain steadied, permitting the return of our senses.

The return of my senses. That is why I’m trying to find some particular recollections amongst this journal. 

In the stillness of remembering I return to my senses, weighing what I lost and what I had.

What I loved. Her.


	3. Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "did not take much persuading to get into bed"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and LEON's Body, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 18th July 1824 Mariana visits Anne Lister. To quote "A little after 6, awakened by a rap at my door. It was M—, who had arrived by the mail… I certainly did not seem in extasies [ sic ] at seeing her but pretended I was half-asleep. She thought she should have found me at my studies. Did not take much persuading to get into bed & gave me one kiss immediately . At 8¼, I got up, went downstairs & gave Hotspur his oatmeal & water. M— breakfasted in bed & I sat by her & had my breakfast between 9 & 10."
> 
> My writing is an imagining of M's visit fuelled by my delight at Anne being playful with her M. Ummm, sorrow and rage guaranteed.

Half dressed, sleeves rolled, I slide the ribbon into my bible and lean back against the head of the bed shutting my eyes, legs tucked beside me. I hear the mail arriving downstairs and M’s voice greeting the staff. She moves up the stairs laughing breathlessly to the girls about something, I hear them murmuring before she quietens crossing the landing. Her knuckles rap at my door with a recognisable clatter and M enters without waiting to hear from me. 

“Fred…”

“Hrmf?” I feign half-sleep in response, batting my lashes indolently, leaning my head against the pillow top. Unmoved by her entry, my hands clasped across my chest.

She shuts the door, narrowing her eyes at my stiff repose on top of the bed.

“I… how long… what game are you playing at? Surely your geometry textbook has seen you this morning, wh…?”

She saunters to stand by the bed. I sit still, eyes shut, trying to tamper the grin curling the edges of lips.

“Breakfast? Letters? Any plans at all Fred? Do I need to raise the rooster again to help you with the time?”

I sigh a fake sigh, gently. 

Next she is up and crawling across the bed to me, pauses halfway to crouch prone preparing to pounce, dress swelling behind her, pattering her little bejewelled paws on the bed to build a playful suspense.

“Are you dreaming about me are you? Can’t leave your land of fantasy? What art am I performing there that could possibly, ever, be better than having me, in the flesh”, she lands head first in my lap nudging my unbound belly, her hands scooping either side of my bum, pulling me, centring me, pushing legs akimbo, kneading the tops of my thighs.

I purse my lips at her nose's prod to the stirring prickling amongst my innards. I peek to watch her quivering veined bosom rising with a heave inside her dress, straining against her stay, trying to escape as her head travels up and leans into my axilla, breathing in. Oh that vision will haunt my candlelit solo endeavours forever; I feel the prickle travel lower ending with a throb. My cross to bear. I have such a dark sense of humour.

She take my hand and presses the palm to her decolletage, “What will rouse you from your reverie?”, I let my hand fall limp, clenching my eyes. She groans. 

She sits up to straddle my thigh, haughtily instructing “Shall you remain in this trance, I will obliged to take matters into my own hands,” tries to rub against my thigh without much effect, relenting to whine my name, imploring “Fred, please”. I raise the opposite thigh and roll that hip against nothing to spite her.

“You are a nightmare this morning” she giggles, awkwardly moving back between my legs to her crouch, I frown at her nonsense. I am instantly wildly aggravated. Her long pause considering me builds my anger.

Her forehead butts against my lap as a dog would push its snout into its master’s hand asking for praise. “Tell me, it is your will, your unconscious desire, to have me, have you?” she murmurs against my churning gut.

I open my eyes to glare in scorn, grab her face with both hands, my fingertips digging to jut out her jaw.

Her knowing left hand slides between my clothes and cups my sex. She pushes and I grind against it repeatedly as she rises in front of me. My hip begins to pain with the pace of the action I bring to her wrist. I steer her forehead to my cheek and drop my hands to scrunch the sheets. She nuzzles my head skull against skull, licks the skin covering the cartilage of my throat, bites my earlobe. Her right hand goes to the headboard for purchase as she leans into me. Our united movements are tight and vengeful and controlled. I pull at the sheets with the force to launch ropes off of a boat, her knee raises to push against the back of my thigh to basket the impending contraction in my rocking pelvis.

My pleasure peaks with a stifled gasp and a lurch which begins in my womb, surges through my lungs and pushes my face into her chest. I bite the edge of her bodice, huffing. I want to cry into her bosom. I want it free to me, to kiss and mark. I want I want. “I keep dreaming of your body, I... there’s nobody quite, like you, Mary” I sob. 

“Tell me something, was it ever love?  
You said this city never felt like home  
If I see you, will it feel the same?  
Or will you miss me? Or was it a game?”

The domesticity of arranging her breakfast in bed afterwards. I keep thinking. I can’t stop thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and corrections welcome :)


	4. Pomme Toxique

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Kat Cunning- EVE, and BANKS- Godless, which I recommend as tunes for your read, in that order. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 20th July 1824 Anne and Mariana (having had playful morning) drive together to Haugh-end to make arrangements and have a tense conversation in part informed by Anne's musing on the events almost 12 months prior, the fallout after her apparent distasteful dress in Scarborough and jumping into Mariana's vehicle with embarrassing excitement on the 'moor. I have sampled and pondered numerous entries, using some direct quotes from amazing Anne, and my writing is an imagining of their journey involving a little more risque action. Anne really did intend to eat Normandy pears, but the apples there are very good too; M was very supportive of her travel to Paris; I tried my best to get the botany and French correct, vous versus toi, etc... and I can quote Anne directly: "She often murmurs, ‘Oh, how delicious,’ just at the very moment".  
*eyebrow wiggle*

I whistle to the horse as our gig jaunts along taking M and I to Haugh-end on an errand, regaining speed. We pass a row of Pippin apple trees pregnant with immature fruit. 

“Perhaps you will go to Normandy and eat apples, for your health, to improve your constitution, Fred, might you?” she brushes her gloved hands together. 

“Mhmm. Pears from Normandy, Mary, not apples. I have craved Fontainebleau grapes certainly.” She deflates a little on the bench beside me. “Maybe I will try both the apples and pears and see what works best, and write to you of it”. She smiles with pursed lips. The breeze brings her hand to steady her hat, we pass a stone wall with a waterfall of summer colour, and the horse jangles amicably.

“Well it would be perfect, a sublime remedy. I am delighted for you, and for Paris to receive you” M prattles. 

“Yes it will suit me very well. I am more inclined to do as suits me, Mary”, I run the ends of the reins through my left hand to straighten them. “I have grown more, yes, grown selfish. Well, more positive of my own ways, I might say.” I lean back tall.

“Your own way, Fred, I…”she is stunned. I look across at her quickly, red lips parted in a arrested gulp, her throat clotted with her reaction, tendrils of her dark hair tickling her brow, eyes strained watching the Inn yard gate pass slowly, could she cry? I straighten one leg to tap the side of my boot on the foot board casually.

“Do you know they have grown apples in Normandy since the 8th century? English apples are much smaller, you would agree, but sweeter. Perhaps I will bring you back a sample of Calvados, the alcohol, a digestif.” I counter her dismay, halting the gig as we have arrived at our destination.

Some twenty minutes later we are returning home. Moving vehicles are a more than suitable location for a candid conversation such as we engage in on this occasion, no method of escape, clear incentive to remain seated and scenery to hold our gaze rather than have to look at one another. 

“I, no. Listen. There is no accounting for feeling, but, at all events… You must manage me better Mary”. I punctuate this request for her care of my selfish heart by leaning forward onto my elbows, gathering the reins and clearing my throat.  
“Oh and I will, I can try Fred, have no doubt I will… as well as I can.” She squirms on the seat beside me, gripping the bench behind her knees whilst removing her glove. 

I feel her watch me hunched over, scowl in my skin, wiping my cheek on my inner sleeve, staring tired at the swinging hips of the horse. She sees the Pippins pass behind my black silhouette, their tender foliage luminescent in the midday rays. 

We abruptly slow to traverse a section of uneven road overhung by larger trees dense with height-of-summer coverage. I try to focus on driving. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the plunging shadow.

M has lent close to me, to murmur against my neck and my bearings are lost with her manner off-kilter. “La veille de demain.” My hackles rise, “I shall have to tempt you Fred. Persuade you to try the forbidden fruit. La pomme est… incarnat. Your Mary tends the tree of good and evil, she waters it with her sin.” Her hand slides to my thigh, the inappropriateness of this intimacy out on the road jumps my leg, inadvertently encouraging her. “I know you want to know Freddie, you want your eyes opened, you want the wisdom of evil, and of good. You’ll be my Eve.” She gives a little laugh, pats my leg, my heel burns in my boot, “And you’ll learn yourself to be naked. And all will be destroyed. But I will tempt you Fred, la pomme est rose, lourde… délicieuse.” Her syrupy voice carrying this final phrase familiar to our passion, pours into my parched palate, stinging my teeth. “C'est… pour toi.”

An easement avails itself and I take the gig away from the road. Our travel has come to a collision we did not expect and she is quivering as I turn on the bench, my leather clad hands steadying the horse whose ears pin back at hearing my retaliation.

“And you will be cursed to crawl on your belly, for eternity” I spit. Her chestnut eyes water, betraying her attempt at a flirtatious countenance. “The heart… knows its own bitterness…” I falter at repeating my musing from a year gone, but her raised eyebrow riles me to dive back to her face. “Your fruit shall certainly be bitter, my molars will crush the seeds... my clever little snake you will poison me with cyanide. You won’t open my eyes to the holy wisdom, you’ll close them for my grave.”

Tongue pressed to her top lip she is pushing the side seam of her skirts up from her knee, her stocking clad leg parallel to mine, her linen drawers are folded in her trunk at home. I groan watching as her trembling pale thigh comes on view to the huddling trees. I stare, eyes open all the while. “You don’t believe in one divine, my worldly Mary. How I could adore you, had you been, ahh” she presses her knee out to expose herself, “been more of that angelic being my fancy formed you. Surely my every sentiment toward you had less of earth in it than heaven”. 

Her hand raises to pinch my bottom lip brusquely, thumb and index poised as if to pluck a petal. I lick her trespass as she takes the same gesture to her thigh, running her index nail into her skin, scratching herself a vertical track to her wet curls. I exhale in defeat, the corners of my eyes and mouth turning down, a moan I can’t capture, watching her move down into her swollen dark pink sex, walking her fingers into her nectar and…

“Good lord. I pray for you Mary”.

I hear a slipping, her lashes flutter.

“You worship me Fred”.

She works her self, her brows raise and head cocks to the side, pelvis tips forward as she indulges in the explicitness of keeping herself exposed with the other sure hand managing her dress. I am desperate, my tailbone thumps, and there is growl behind my sternum. 

“And when you’re gone, I’m God-less”. 

She brings her glistening fingers away from her self, makes to offer them to my open mouth awaiting its taste of her sacramental wine, but pulls away just as I begin to salivate from her aroma, pulls my temptation away to her own mouth and viperish tongue flicking. I am restrained from correcting her by my hands wound in the reign of my impatient horse.

I should make her walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and corrections welcome :)


	5. With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Ursine Vulpine's version of Wicked Game, specifically, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 21st July 1824, Anne and Mariana have a domestic day at home, and make love that night. Anne tells us "I do believe she loves me with all her heart" and of their activities, "two last night. M- spoke in the very act. ‘Ah’, said she, ‘Can you ever love anyone else?’ She knows how to heighten the pleasure...". The very next day Mariana leaves, and they do not see each other again for ages. My writing is my imaginings of their evening, with a little (or a lot) of fruity booze.  
Yum.

I stand at the shelf rearranging, whilst she sorts her laundry, packing her trunk. This unobtrusive compatibility swells my chest. Since the morning, reading, writing, eating, conversing, sitting in peace.  
I adore the sound of M trundling along the hall way, her fluency with my home and its quirks, her ease with everyone. I step to scrutinise the frame of the grubby window conspiratorially; her current efforts are an attempt to remedy the damage of occasions she withdrew from my affections, in her speculative fear.  
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do, the pains she takes to manage me better, to remind me of her whole hearts love for me, and beg my forgiveness. Oh my girl. You must forgive me too. But perhaps we are too far gone.

We each take baths, dressed for bed. 

She has dug around for different books, one amongst my catalogue of botany texts, another on Romans. I adore watching her read, reclining cosily peering at the pictures, her plush bed coat cradling her curvaceous body, bare feet bouncing over the arm of the chair, elbows and toes pink. She’s sucking on a spoon.

A portion of fresh cherries in brandy unable to fit in the preserving jar has come upstairs with her. 

The book lands under the chair. A soft clinking. The spoon dribbles with liqueur, she bites into the cherry, sucking the ruby liquid, staining her puckering lips, crushes the flesh. Swallows, tongues the seed. She looks up to meet my stare. I see the gold flint in her chestnut eyes, here the trajectory of our arduous wicked thing reveals itself.

She gulps from the jar. I tap the spine of my text. Book retrieved she stands, sways unexpectedly with a loose grin. Another swig. Clunk to the table. I huff a bemused sigh. Hear the book slide back amongst its friends behind me. Smell the fragrance of her body, it brings to me the memory of my first lick upon the prominence of her clavicle. I glower, throb. A candle burns out, smoke tendrils caressing the remaining flames. There is a simmering in the air. I feel the wide wooden chair under me press back against my thighs, a seismic rumble begins here.

She bends around the side of my chair, I turn my head to meet hers. Cherry nipped, catching it, holding it precariously. She gives the fruit a little slurp. Begins to move her lips towards mine, watching my expression, her eyebrow rising sardonically. I meet her mouth on the perpendicular, she releases the drupe to me and pulls back, a red dribble cresting her vermilion border. An ancient orchestra endeavours a crescendo in my belly. She licks the drip. I reach for her elbow, chewing, and bring her around to sit atop my ache. I spin the cherry pit between my teeth with my tongue, hissing as her bum slides off my thigh to between my legs, knees drawing up she turns her body to me. I remove the pit, grab her waist to hold her against me and reach past her to the table, her face nestles in the crook of my neck, her hands folded in prayer against my chest. Then I am returning with the jar of brandy, take a sip, our loose hair swinging into our faces, I shake my mane away as I swallow. She returns to nose my temple, kisses my cheek, I turn and kiss her blush, her lashes tickling me. I murmur against her. We take in each other’s eyes at close range. 

She pulls back, gives me a cheeky, pouty glare, nods to the jar. I bring it to her mouth, holding it there longer than she needs to sip, pecking her shoulder. I lower the brew to the floor beside us with care. She exaggerates her swallow, watching me, holds her breath. I embrace her face, my hands dwarfing the fragile expression, weaving my fingers into the soft hair at the nape of her neck to draw her to me. We kiss noses nudging. I feel her smile inside this kiss. I slowly work it away, capturing her lips, pulling them, prod against her tongue, raising my jaw to press open kisses against her red mouth, breath of spiced alcohol and the sour sadness of short-seasoned cherries. Her clasped hands drum on my chest once to signal her break for a breath, her brow pressing mine. I hear a light sniffle, it amplifies my effort to hold her swollen mouth with mine, kiss her with all the determination I can muster as tears fall. I can’t stand her to see her cry. “Oh my girl” I pause to share. My exhale hopes to calm her inhale. 

I turn her between my legs, raising her nightgown to her waist, wedging her bum against my lap, knees hooked up on mine, leaning back into me, her head against the chair where my bed coat is draped. We pause, for brandy for me, a protracted eye wipe with her knuckles for her. A beat. My hands set course for her sex, departing from her ribs, sweeping over her haunches, fingertips kneading her belly, thumbs brushing the exquisitely soft skin sheltered inside her hip bone, circling here for such a time to cause her hips to rise on firming buttocks. I watch over her shoulder as I brush down over her curls, predicting a moan from her chest. My left hand warmly holds the belly over her womb, as I push in. I will never cease to marvel, all the years of holding her have committed the idiosyncrasies to memory, I am a cellist cradling her instrument, eliciting a mournful, amorous harmony between my hands and her sex. I cosset her trembling pelvis, steady it firmly with my left hand. We adore this assurance, to carry her into her orgasm, whilst I stir her, bringing her close twice before staying true to my promise. I push the apex of my chin against her shoulder blade. She laces her hand in my left, we pat her rapidly rising form as it recovers. She slides over to take a long drink of brandy.

I hug and grip her beneath the ribs, pushing to stand and direct her to the bed, pulling off her nightgown. I tip a cherry in my mouth and re-home the empty jar. We dance across the rug. She wilts into the bed as the alcohol goes to her head, musses her glossy hair, a puddle in which her face floats, flushed. I recline adjacent, trail the bit cherry across my lips, onto her throat, down to a dark nipple, marking it with rouge before tonguing it. The harmony strives. Another candle stops.

I open my eyes to see her watching me bite her breast, she pushes her thigh against my mound and we look at one another comfortably, measuring the response of the others touch, flicking up to notice a fresh glow of sweat. Her eye brows knit forlornly, mouth opens to state. “Ah, can you ever love anyone else?”

“No body loves no one”, I tell her elbow owning the hand that grips my neck. I brush numb lips against this vulnerable skin, nosing her bicep, tickling her. She responds, laughing, pushing, wrestling over me. I grin widely.

I recline on my elbows, diagonal in the bed. She settles in my lap rolling her hips, licking her fingers, blinking tipsily, hiccups. She bends over me, extracts me from my gown, my hair catches on a button. I lie to watch the fullness of her breasts come away from her ribs, run knuckles from nipple down the plump convex shape, back up to brush the claret points, back down again to needle her ribs playfully, goading her to fall over me, her arms amongst the pillows holding up her swaying frame. I slide beneath the table of her body to tongue her ribs, the fat around her navel, down to the crease of leg as I pull her knees behind my shoulders, I suck her thigh hard and leave a wine coloured mark, meander to her sex. Her face hides, I assess the weight of her, bum in my hands. I work her softly. Prop her thighs as she moans losing her composure. The peak of her pleasure is a climb from her lumbar spine; resonating across her abdomen, the song of it entering my mouth. It fades. Our tangle falls to the side. I press my face against her quavering tummy, her hands in my hair. Her knee tops jostle against my breasts. I reach to my self and take care, performing, and securing my own intimate accord. We lay tessellated.

“This will never come out”, she huffs inspecting the fruit blood stain to her chemise. I have no response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and corrections welcome :)


	6. Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Gordi- Wanting and Jessie Ware, Love to love, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, the weather is tumultuous leading into a weekend reunion for Anne and Mariana on the 22nd July 1821. Anne can't wait to get her hands busy *eyebrow wiggle*
> 
> Nervous to see one another, they renew their affections after a very long night of conversation, and I quote 'Went to M— but somehow did not manage a good kiss. Refused to promise till I had really felt that she was my wife. Went to her a second time. Succeeded better & then bound ourselves to each other by an irrevocable promise for ever, in pledge of which, turned on her finger the gold ring I gave her several years ago...'. Amazing Anne's entries from this weekend offer so many inspiring insights and observations. My writing is my imaginings of their rekindling amidst the wild atmosphere between them, and above.

I remind the staff to have my newly tailored skirts off the clothes line and packed, before the dusty haze from the hay-making in the hot fields settles into them. “There has been adequate time for them to be ready, in this sunshine, honestly, there is no excuse”. Must I make sure of everything myself? I will have to have a proper ladies maid, eventually. I re-read M’s letter, calculating the balance I need to bring for the christening gift we shall give together, as the god-parents of her niece. The letter refolds easily, it’s had frequent use as I plan for our rendezvous. I watch the kitchen girls struggling with the clothes line in the growing gusts. After eighteen months I will see more of M than her fingerprint amongst ink smudges, and I will be dressed handsomely. I frown as the girls shriek. If any of my outfit survives.

I am awoken about 4 the next morning by a violent beating upon the roof. Good god. I leap from bed to assess the cause. Hail? What a roar. I creak the window, have to pick away lumps of ice heaping against the sill to get a decent open. Snow in the summer, I soliloquise. I regret handling the stones and shut the window trying to wipe my hand. The room is dark, the weather very peculiar and my hand burning. I return to bed unable to shake an abnormal tension in my wrists. My fingers jitter and itch. I wedge them beneath my armpits to quell the irritation. 

I travel into town later in the day, arriving to the Inn amongst the Belcombe family, a note from M. Can’t be there for two days yet. ”I am so nervous to see you, I wish it over with” disguised in her scribble. I pitch the paper kite into the guest bed. A groan. Again the crawling itchy feeling to my hands, like my blood has settled into the crevices of my palm, nesting, twitching. I find myself standing in Orans resisting the urge to scratch. I sit, slap my hands to my knees. I need occupation. Decide to dust out the drawers of my cupboard to settle myself in.

She arrives mid-afternoon on Sunday, I’d almost given up on expecting her. 

My heart is thudding. “Hello Mary” I manage. I offer to assist her from the carriage and her firm grip stops the bother in my hand. “Hello Fred” she quips without looking up from her descent. I bring her to the building entrance as our people spill out to welcome her. Releasing her, the tremor returns. I disguise it clasping behind my back.

Oh she is well. She is wearing a very complimentary green ensemble. I step to stand by the door, afforded space to quantify her, as she stands at ease to greet everyone, tickling her niece, her namesake, cooing, giving compliments. Oh she is a beauty. Her hair seems darker, her lips heavier, her clavicles more noticeable as she laughs. She is the centre of attention, freeing my gaze to amble across her bust, as she shrugs her travel coat in the heat of another warm day approaching its yawn. The curve of her waist is demonstrated as she turns waving to someone approaching from the lower yard. I admire her rear as she pulls her skirt around her in a playful defence to the scrappy puppy jumping at the feet of the conversation. I repaint her portrait in my mind’s eye, right down to her little boots stepping around gritty tarns in the yard to retrieve her hatbox. Passing me at the door she smiles a warning smile, smooth your expression, and temper the yearning behind your surveillance. My eyes dart off to watch innocent clouds. Her eyes roll.

She settles in. Time with the family. Pre-dinner requirements. Dinner. After-dinner requirements. I for example, require two glasses of wine in an attempt to quell my dithering gestures and clumsy elbows. We partake in reasonably pleasant conversation, navigating the gaps in our prior correspondence. Soon all others parted for bed. She and I for a nightcap in my room, arrange another chair. 

In following the staff up the stairs, I spy her hand, cloaked in her skirt. It is too tempting, and I grab it, the position cannot be explained as assistance. Permits it just long enough for the tremor to travel to my shoulders before casting me away.

Once alone we push our backs into the chairs, assessing one another. Her feet crossed, boot toe bobbing. She runs her minor knuckles against each other, laddering up and down. Initiates, re-introduces her point on Latin tenses. I cross my arms stiffly, my back hurts, trying not to fidget, trying not to interrupt, trying to be polite.

“Amavero”

“Amatus ero”

She halts in irritation. Abandons her tangent.

“Oh I have found you wanting” she grumbles.

I open my mouth wordless. Gob smacked. Recover to begin to make promises to amend my conduct in order to regain her positive regard… “Mary forgive me, I”…

“I have found you wanting me, Fred.”

She grins. 

I blush. At my mumbling words and the impudence of her misdirection. Dig my nails into my palms.

We are drawn to one another, caught in a vortex that drags us closer, breathless with want yet trapped in hesitation, revolving. I slide to the floor, I mitt her hands grasping the armrests, humbly kneel at the altar of her chair. Rest my brow against her knees. Her hips nudge forward timidly. I feel the loom of desperation, I push beneath her skirts flustered and ravenous, the schism accelerates, her hands are in my hair painful and awkward, scratching. Her knees collide with my hip bones, plunging our faces together, disorganised licking, panting, foreheads knocking. I begin to lose all orientation; our passion a mysterious vapour, in reaching for all of her, meaningful activity eludes me. I try to touch her sex, dew laden curls heralding her brewing lust, my hands frantic and impatient, stirring, surging to mania. Oh I could cry with frustration, she writhes but the prey of our chase is escaping, spooked by my haste it evades us. She begins to shush me, my petulant groans and whinging, takes my hands in hers. 

“Oh Fred, come come now” she soothes, standing gracefully, leading me, turning to attend our undress. I follow along sulking. She glides serenely about the room folding our things carefully, graciously averting her gaze, tranquil gestures settling the room.

I land on the bed like a stone, fall into my face, appearing embedded in the blankets. I could happily drown in my discontent, such is the burden of my mortification. I extend my arms to beat my hands against the sheets in a faux tantrum, exasperated plea. Hear a tiny giggle. Ooof.

Hear the door locking. Candelabra brought to the bedside. 

Her first point of contact, her fingertips roll down my stockings. She thumbs the back on my knees, squeezes my calves, and pinches my Achilles. Her plump petite hands belie their strength, and tenacity. Traverses up, smoothly palms my thighs, with a light grunt of exertion reaches my buttocks which she pummels tenderly. The feeling of her handling me is luxurious; there is a reverence amongst her sultry energy. Her knee slides between my legs to perch over me, pushing alongside my spine, pressing me into the bed, forcing the air out of my chest making me guffaw, my cheek pressed into the sheets, half blinded. Lightens her touch to press feline motions against my spine, down to the ligaments of my sacrum. She focuses her ministrations here. Over my shoulder, on the periphery of my vision, the swell and sway of her breasts beneath her chemise as her torso dispenses energy into mine. Soon exquisite heat sways up within my womb, a dense delicious ache. She makes to carry it up into my chest, sliding hot hands to my shoulder blades, swooping her lap in against my bum, lying atop me, elbows sliding to prop either side of me. Brings her face to the top of my spine where she kisses, noses, she insists in a whisper “I love to love you”. I raise my hips off the bed against her and she presses into me. Uses her knees to draw back, and then lunge in. Feel my pubic bone humming, bodies undulating territory. Continue this way until she produces three small moans and a kiss to my cheek, “Please”.

She kneels back to make space for me to roll over beneath her. Guides my limbs, within her face a soft expression of peace, her eyes adoring, red lips framing an enigmatic smile. Takes my left hand against her right, we press them together completing two halves of solemn prayer. A beat. We interlace our fingers, gripping one another. I bring my other hand to rest upon my thigh, and raise my knee, me into her. My palm receives her sex, a gift, the pleasure of bestowing it engulfs her face, closing her eyes, moving her smile into a moan. She gyrates into me, tightens our clasp, uses her free hand to pull up her chemise to expose her belly to me, and hold the clothed breast over her heart in a tantalising squeeze. The linen pleats between her fingers, she thumbs her hard nipple, my gold ring twinkles, polished by her motion over her bosom. I move my gesture and engage my fingers, conjuring, enter her. She is mesmerised. Her motion is sublime, balanced by ours hands embrace.

“I shall, I. I shall have loved.” she gasps. Her feet squirm, calves cramping, her pelvis churns against my hand, I see her breathing change as the rush rises. She scrabbles at her chemise, she slides her hand up from her plump breast to squeeze the linen to her throat at the pulse points, thrusts her jaw, torso lengthening out above me, the blood in the veins of her unsheltered breasts looks especially blue, her stretching elbow and spilling ringlets of brunette, the anvil of her storm. An act of devotion to my pleasure.

I tug her tether, our still clasped hands. 

“I will have been loved” I murmur, and with that she falls down on to me, her peak of pleasure almost expelling me but for my insistence to transport her into her orgasm, secure it with her, my radial pulse synchronising with her heartbeat at the knot of her sex. We intermingle on a cellular level. Her head neighbours mine, she tugs our clasped hands to her face to lick and bite my knuckles.  
I gently stroke and linger at her entrance, the syrup of her sex painting my palm, in my eyelids star light shatters and spins, the vein in my temple throbs.  
In the shelter of her body, which sighs in recuperation, levitating, beginning to kiss my ear, my eye, the side of my mouth groaning open, I turn my hand to my self, mixing our syrups.  
My orgasm rumbles from my knees to shoulders, is born from my bones, exuded by my flesh and received by hers, the echo reverberating between my spine and hers.  
This resonance does not cease though our movement ends and bodies slacken to sleep, collapsed like fallen angels, faces pale with unconsciousness, amongst sheets tangled by our yearning limbs and emanating our perfume.  
An irrevocable promise to be bound to one another, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really laboured over parts of this and remained dissatisfied, maybe a bit nervy myself. Comments and corrections, suggestions, very welcome :)


	7. Stroke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "stroke your ego"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and BANKS- Stroke, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, in December 1817 Anne spends time ingratiating herself with the Belcombe family after a tricky year since Mariana's wedding. Amongst the various social occupations designed to keep an appropriate distance between Anne and Mariana, Mariana is recovering from having teeth pulled. Anne is initially prohibited from Mariana's room, but then, according to Anne: "she herself suggested our having a kiss. I thought it dangerous & would have declined the risk but she persisted & by way of excuse to bolt the door sent me downstairs for some paper, that she was going to the close-stool. The expedient answered & she tried to laugh me out of my nervousness. I took off my pelisse & drawers, got into bed & had a very good kiss, she showing all due inclination & in less than seven minutes the door was unbolted & we were all right again."
> 
> SEE ALSO: Local top a lil' whipped for her illicit sweetie, makes it a quickie.

Days of courteous behaviour, best manners and strategy, distributing my attention and affection, gifts, good conversation and subtle apologies. Pious, genteel, discreet, biting my tongue, leaving her to her bed alone.

M having a long lie in, poorly with a sore face, even after taking laudanum. I am offered the opportunity to take her luncheon broth, a bowl into one hand and a stool in the other, instructions for the seating arrangement.

I shuffle into the room, “Mary, soup”. She is sitting high in the bed, a hill of pillow about her.

She engages me affectionately, “Oh wouldn’t you hold the crockery for me, please, sit with me properly”. I compromise, nestle the stool as close to the bedside as possible, and hold the bowl like a ritualised offering.

She raises the spoon into her mouth, takes the round against her tongue. I watch her sweaty little mouth latch around the stem. 

The fire has been stoked into a fury to combat her illness, juxtaposed against the snow falling outside it a cosy scene, but at the boundary, a dangerous edge of misery and desire.

We sit as she sips, my back begins to ache with my strained posture.

She swallows. Glances down as I wipe my dripping nose to the inside of my sleeve, hands occupied by the dish.

“Go to the door, open it and feign like you’re leaving. Lock us in”

I shake my head incredulously, my cheeks flush, my mouth goes dry as I hand her the soup, “Mary do you have any idea the trouble…” I croak.

“Foutre toi… I’ll give you trouble. Lock the door.”

I rise and follow her direction, a hesitant actor in her charade, except the movement helps me acknowledge the thrilling sting hurting from my coccyx into my sex. She calls out as I stand at the open door, “Leave me to my ablutions now”. I scoff silently, is she mad? Dubious but trying to hide my grin. She looks to the side, smacks her lips, listening for the reception of our performance. Nods. I bolt the door and step to the middle of the room.

Oh I am hot now. She surveys me from her sumptuous cathedra, her expression an aloof grandeur. I smooth my hair, scratch my eyebrow whilst checking my pocket watch. 11 o’clock in the morning. A log disintegrates and thuds to the back of the fire box. 

“Do make yourself comfortable. Help me with a little, more…” She pushes her tongue against her bottom teeth, “remedy?”

I remove my pelisse, self-conscious and shaky. “More Fred, hurry up” she chastises, placing the soup to the bedside stand.  
So my drawers go too.  
She pats the middle of the bed.  
I move quickly and crawl up, smell the tang of her sheets as she kicks down the blankets and commit to going to her, the backs of her knees clammy, between her thighs sticky as she guides my hand towards her sex with her burning little grips, eyes shut. I kneel beside her, hold her knee against my breast for purchase, push her fringe back from her sweaty brow to grip into her wild mahogany hair. Breathing against each other’s face, I push against her entrance, slide slick from here up to the knot of her sex, I hasten my wrist with thirst, building pace. Droplets from my fingers as if I were stroking a trickling brook in a secret garden, the stone beneath the water slippery having never had respite from perpetual arousal. Her mouth hangs open, her tongue balling. I move my gesture to sweep just inside, against the lee side of pebbled flesh. Her feet jerk and I persist, knowing the relief of orgasm is imminent is the catalyst for her outpouring, which runs down the back of my hand as her pelvis thrusts and her moan gurgles in her throat, her fingers crimp involuntarily into my arm as she shudders.  
I kiss her sweaty hair and pull away to dry my hands on the sheets as she slumps back expended, deliriously drowsy. I tidy her up, wipe her perspiration, straighten the bed and dress myself. 

Check my time. 7 past eleven. Unbolt the door.


	8. Siren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Wolf Alice's cover of Song of the Siren, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on the 19th of April 1819, Anne accidentally breaks the key used to wind and set her pocket watch, which Mariana had gifted her in 1814. In her own words: "If I were at all superstitious, I might think this ominous", as two days prior she had received a letter from a misguided M "As long, my dear Fred, as I reign undisturbed over your heart, I am satisfied. ’Tis the only kingdom in the world that I covet &, assured that no rival can have power to dethrone me, I am fully & entirely satisfied. Tell me this, however, sometimes, & then perhaps I shall not doubt again’. Anne muses, "I had certainly never less idea, hope, or rather wish, of our being ultimately together than I have at present". At this time Anne was very interested in a Miss Browne and M was far out of reach. My writings are based on my imaginings of Anne recalling the day in 1814 (which no journals survived to tell us about) that she received this gift, what the magnitude of it may have been, given how very much in love they were in those first relatively uncomplicated few years.  
And look, I think I need to change the rating.

I intend to write my receipt of her letter into the index of my diary, Monday 19 April 1819, and the time? My watch is not on me. I move the board of my writing desk to search, and inadvertently, snap the shank of my tiny silver wind-key. Bother.

I take the two parts and attempt to reassemble. Futile. The weld is broken. If I were at all superstitious, I might think this ominous. 

I lean back into the chair behind the desk to fondle the broken tool, imagine it whole and useful again. Recall when it was shiny brand new, that spring 1814. Already madly in love.

First meeting her was to see her distant shores. Then began the melodic enchantment, the long conversations over tea and cake, walks about the garden, visits to town, gifts in the post, quiet evenings together speaking intimately, the temptation of her décolletage as she lent to correct my hands at the piano, eyes hypnotising, here you belong, all will be well. Staying over in York, welcome in her bed, her warm body persuading me, take shelter here, lay down with me.

I was a novice explorer of such permissive territory. Oh how could I have known my vessel would end up sunk, blind as I was to the verge of impending romantic ruin. Leapt into her lap, discovered new land shrouded in bedclothes. 

Became a resident of her nation.

How I desire to be ruled, to live happily within her law, to follow her commands and strive to please her, slay enemies in her name and conquer for her glory. To belong to her. Honour her and worship her, building castles. 

Entranced by her beauty, charm and wit. She wooed me, clever, articulate, delicate but feisty, feminine but not overly meek. Her family are adorable. She is good at games and maths, knows some politics, is good at playing house, she has some education. She speaks French. She stirs something in me no other woman has, more than a tolerable compatibility, but reciprocation of devotion, a willingness to be my possession, obsession, my destination, maybe my wife.

She is demure until the precipice, after which her vocabulary of carnal pleasure more than satisfies me. 

She gifts me the key to the city, the tool to continue our time, after a long grey day spent shopping together, linking arms, flirting over groceries, avoiding boring old people, the terms of our friendship held in the strictest confidence. As the horizon swallows a red sun we are safe in her room at her family residence. I have a drawer in the oak chest.

She has pulled blankets and pillows down onto the rug in front of the fire, built a little harbour.

I bathe and dress for bed. I rove about, shaking out clothing, tidying our books, take up the glittering new key to wind my pocket watch. Crank it over. I glance to her, light house amongst the dark waves.

She in kneeling at the staithe, facing the room, drying her waist length hair by the fire, flicking droplets that sizzle against the grate and soak spotty tears into the timber floor. Runs her hands to scratch her scalp, pulling her muslin towel, draped like a Grecian gown, tight against her breasts, her dark nipples hard against the veil. Sybarite. Shakes her hair languidly, bends her neck side to side, curving her body, I grip the post of the bed where I stand, entranced, mesmerised from the middle of the room. 

She begins to untangle her Russet tinged hair at the crown, elbows skyward, the towel slips to become a sovereigns robe, the tendons of her axilla taut, her full breasts raised peaked upon her chest revealing little pinking scars of growth beneath the apex, soft breathing motion of her prominent ribs informing her girlish trim waist, from which her delicious round haunches swell. I see the glow of fire peek from between her feet, a trough of light illuminating the curls hiding her sex, warming the creamy skin of her bottom, the inside of her thighs. She gathers the towel to wring her hair, begins to hum a tin whistle tune from the street fair. I walk to place my watch on the bedside stand. Across the room her entire form is back lit, firelight licking around the hourglass of her swaying torso, casting a shadow that leans out towards me, beckoning. 

“Sail to me, sail to me  
Let me enfold you  
Here I am  
Here I am,  
Waiting to hold you”

I begin the journey home, walking timidly afraid I might startle her from her reverie and break her spell. Her motion is hypnotic, the closer I come the more blurred the border between illumination and skin.  
She reaches her hands to palm my knees, her hands like creeping water push up my thighs to grip my hips, draw me down. I kneel resting my hands on her damp shoulders, becoming enclosed in her embrace, her hands are filled with my bum, draw up over my sacrum, cuddle us closer, she eases her knees forward to tessellate our laps. Feel the wet of each other sex against firm thigh. She holds my waist, steers me for a tight little grind against her. I moan and grip her shoulders as I feel something spill inside me, finally boiled over, miscalculation revealed. She watches my smaller breasts become surrounded by hers. We roll our laps together, breakers crashing. Home home home. Gather my wits to hold her face, nose her cheek as I roll, she nudges back during her turn, find her mouth, our kiss a skip tossed about our tumultuous ocean, pitching to and fro, sharing a breath of resuscitation, tongue over her bottom lip to abet a capsize, she nips my cupids bow to take back the helm. 

“As long as I reign undisturbed over your heart, I am satisfied. ‘Tis the only kingdom in the world that I covet.” Her sirens song. The charm of eloquence of persuasion. The entangling binding. She holds me firmly to direct her impact. “Are you in heaven?” I cry softly as her hand pulls deeply into my bum, spreading me to be impossibly closer to her thigh. “Shall I unite your soul with the divine life of the celestial host?” she teases as I whine.

“No. I will be, re-born, at your Earthen shore, for eternity” I choke out. 

I rake my hand into the hair at her nape, down its length, pulling it out taut behind her, the forestay to her mast, and I handle her sex, probing with my thumb, pushing her knot. Her hands release me to cradle her bosom, bouncing cleavage. I kiss her elongated neck, where the firelight exposes an almost healed love bite, which I re-injure. Restrain her with her hair whilst her orgasm ricochets between her pelvis and rib cage. Extend it, bring her close and keep her there, panting and squeaking, till she straining against her pulled hair to convulse her torso forward and clench her buttocks. 

To her glory. To my ruin.

She is swaying again, face blissed out, I gather her hair in my grip close to her head, produces a tired hiss, and guide her lap out of mine, to lie down in front of me. She is shaking to the point of collapse, onto her stomach over the seawall of her play harbour, the pillow props her bum. I crawl between her juddering splayed legs, my own cramping thighs almost fail me. Lean in to tongue where her buttock meets her thigh. Salty. Sweet. She groans into the rug where she lies. The empire. Lick again. My empress. I lay down on my arm, wedging my hand against my sex, leaning on the other arm to keep my face at her. Pant against her bum, bite her thigh, bring on my peak of pleasure with my favourite vista of my queendom laid out before me.  
Collapse.  
The fire has died down and we shiver in our nakedness. Pull to each other, pull sheets and blankets, dismantle the harbour to build a shelter, hold one another, victorious conquerors. 

That time stopped long before today that the key broke. My eviction from her domain born of her worldly needs and my inability to give her a homeland. She has not talent enough to blind me to the discovery or charm me from the remembrance of all this.

Still I am haunted by her anthem, her promise of resurrection. Time everlasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and corrections very welcome :)


	9. Cellulose and Marble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and songs by Agnes Obel, Golden Green, Mary, Stretch your Eyes, Citizen of Glass, Trojan Horses and Stoen, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, Anne is visiting friends in November and December 1820, where she walks the garden with Miss Vallance and has trouble with the girls, as she describes "Only five minutes alone with Miss Vallance, the girls staid so long in my room. Charlotte came first & said, in substance, that I was always praising M—. Thought her all perfection... I rather fought off about M— but Charlotte persisted it was plain enough... I began to feel very low & said I had a headache. It was a heartache & I know not when I have felt a feeling so dispirited, so lorn & miserable, yet the thought of M—’s most affectionate letter came across me & I wondered that, after such a one, I could be so uncomforted". In February the next year Anne writes an exceptionally beautiful, tender letter to M. My writing is an imagining of the words of these letters given voice, and occasion.
> 
> I think this will be it, for now.

Statue on her plinth, robed goddess, pearlescent lips in the frozen weather. “A beguiling beauty?” Miss Valance calls over to me. I frown but re-join her, abandoning my inspection of the garden ornament. We continue our marching around the grounds in the cold for exercise. Trying to flirt and pay attention to my lithe acquaintance, but not come on too strong, but not be vague, be clever and charming. I am exhausted. It is bleak, on all fronts. Naked trees, no affirmative movement from nature. Dead dry grass stretching on forever, sky too bright, glaring, I feel as though we could fall right off the earth, gravity nullified. 

Back in the house after the walk, a fresh round of teasing about how I am always praising M, “all of perfection” the girls imply, gesticulate somewhat lewdly, to my great embarrassment. Oblivious. Insufferable.

I feel terribly low and tell all to clear out, I have a headache. A heartache, to be truthful. Spend some time at my journal, my friend, recalling passages of old poetry and pen my own.  
O’ for the trees did grow there, and the plants did spring  
O’ for they know a lovers sin, o’ how I will leave you there again

Return back to an excerpt of my copied down version of M’s most affectionate letter, which had been accompanied by a dry pressed flower, a daisy. Remind myself of the comfort of being her wife, and she being mine. Mary, Mary, if thou wert with me, I think I should be happy. Lay down into bed. Transcend.

How very unlike today that day was. York. Late summer. A while since now. 

I intend to scrutinise the architecture, and she intends to collect blooms to dry.

Our destination is obscured by shabby out-buildings, broken tools and drays leaning against each other, overhanging trees and nets of ivy. We push past overgrown hedges, a creaking gate and clamber over rubble towards our sanctuary. Hushed are the bustling streets of York, the deeper into the verdant netherworld we travel. Life erupting from the ground. Green and gold kind August light filtered by the trees. The peace is eerie. Out from the umbrella of an enormous tree we emerge, towering in front of us is the skeleton of St Mary’s Abbey. We exchange excited glances. I guide her to walk carefully along an informal path, becoming grass where the flatter substrate of the former building begins. 

A short walk yields us a sheltered position on the northern side of the greying wall of the ruins, the ribs of the church towering behind us. The landscape is more open from this aspect, an area of grass receding into an abandoned small crop field now occupied by wild flowers and weeds, small trees further out. I cannot see or hear another person, though it is not far to the ancient walls and River Ouse. 

I cast out the blanket and as she flounces down beside me twirling off her coat I can smell her fragrance, light sweat from our efforts.  
She sits neatly, perching her hat on a block camouflaged by dried out lichen, unpacking a basket, we remove gloves, uncorking a little jar, find spoons, swat away an eager fly and hungrily enjoy syrup sandwiches, cheese, chutney, apple, a slice of dry beef. Cold rose tea.

Take up my book. She begins to braid the grass growing long against the wall, pausing to nibble a piece of apple dipped in syrup, brushes a sticky hand against her neck. I read to her a passage of newly published Wordsworth. She is very attentive to her grass handiwork, as I suspect she needs time to decipher the poetry’s intended meaning.  
Take my hat off to lean back contentedly against the warm stone, as our digestion, and the afternoon proper, begins. 

Sitting. In rearranging her dress frivolously, moves a little closer. I brush an imaginary ant intruder from my skirt to lean her way. Settle down to take in the tree tops swaying as the breeze increases, clouds indecisive. Find our heads nodding closer together, quiet hums of observation, set down our handkerchiefs, pack up the basket, a long look though her lashes. Feed her the last crumbs of gummy bread squashed against my thumb, which she nibbles off. Swipe my tongue against my thumb, very slowly, to be sure I’m cleaned up. Wouldn’t want treacle on my poetry. She is transfixed upon my mouth. I bite the tip of my thumb. Her eyes narrow, shakes her head with a little smile and looks away to the edge of the scene. I bite my cheeks to contain my smile. All of a sudden she is leaning in smoothly onto her hands, her curl framed face is heading towards mine, her sweet breathe swirls, drawn into my open mouth as I inhale sharply, her little bust bulges against her dress… I realise in time she means to push herself to rise from her knees. I close my watering mouth. Stands and looks down at me, surveying. 

I wave her off, she wanders across the unkempt grass, over to the sprawling border of overgrowth hugging ruin, Asteraceae in its variety and young woodland.  
I smack my lips finishing the tea watching her. My excitement has been activated from my sternum, feeling my heart beating hard, much as I wish it to settle, and to quell my fantastical notions. Try to sigh. 

Butterflies fight against the weight of their dying wings to careen between the tufting clouds of yarrow as she strolls up to them. She bends to pat the nodding heads of a crowd of yellow cowslip. Rubs between her pinch, the fan of a buttery Welsh poppy amongst the rockery. Walks along further. Stills and appears like an alabaster figure in her narrow cotton skirt. Paper thin petals of pink musk mallow appear to have a translucent blush. She fears to touch the inflorescence evocative of pincushions of the violet field scabious, where bees land heavy, guaranteed treasure. Sky blue chicory dances at her feet. Growing amongst it all, white daises, bright against the congested dark green creeping weeds, prolific as stars on a new Moon evening. She is rooted to the spot, around the curve of the garden bed appears surrounded by the mass of wild flowers, further encircled by vines strangling other shrubs. Finally she pulls her gauzy shawl around so it cowls across her bust, beaded ends bouncing against the small of her back, emphasising her neat waist.  
All very pretty. The flowers too.

Pulls the cowl out in front her as a little apron, begins collecting daisy faces. Little gardener harvesting, plucking with fingers that become sticky from the plants bruised sap, frowning at a swarm of gnats. Nips her tongue in concentration as she balances to reach sea blue cornflowers. She stands admiring, watches a lacewing fly off, she gazes into the trees, facing away from me. I see the passing zephyr unfurl a delicate curl of fawn hair at her nape. The cosiddetta Flora, poised as in the fresco. 

I return to a verse of Wordsworth. 

I see thee glittering from afar;—  
And then thou art a pretty Star;  
Not quite so fair as many are  
In heaven above thee!  
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,  
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—  
May peace come never to his nest,  
Who shall…

A shower of petals and dials rains down onto me. I am adorned with white florets, spurring an astonished laugh. I look up to see the vindictive delight upon her face, shawl held aloft. “Trouble now my girl!” I mock-accuse, snapping shut the rhymes and launching to my feet. She is surprised by my speed and steps back with a shrieking giggle, “I’m innocent”, wheels around and takes off, heading for the far side of the wall. Hide and seek.

I gain on her, and walk with authority around the corner of the church. A breeze off the river buffets me, I smell pungent water weed, rain in the distance, then the aroma of wood fire and slashed grass. Not to be distracted from our game, I look about for her. She has made it to the next corner, and looks back over her shoulder at me, her dress blowing against the back of her slender legs, another two tendrils of hair flying free. Even from the distance I see the glee in her face. “You” I mouth, pointing. She blows me a kiss, and zips around the corner, her laugh carried with her by the growing breeze. 

I follow walking. I could follow her anywhere, I would do so happily. I would trek. I would chase. I would worship the ground that her satin slippers graced. Would she lead me astray? Or in to the paradise Elysium as Virgil described it, where the path conducts you to your journey’s end, amidst eternal spring, illuminated solemque suum, sua sidera norunt. I brush out a collection of daisy stars from the neck of my pelisse, they scatter around me as I round where I last saw her. 

I can’t see her, or rather, have given up the chase, tell myself I want to hide, want to be lied to, halted by the glare of fleeting afternoon sun against the inside walls of the church, revealing the weathered mould spattered over the lips of the arches, the points of their summits a dizzying height above me. The stone old as millennia, witness in some form or another to the origin of all the historically inspired allegory that spins in my head. It is warmer here, I walk in, spy a protected spot in the corner. I run my fingers along the crumbled pointing of the masonry work, down over the blocks long smoothed by centuries of weather. The foundations of a medieval house of worship, once bustling with activity and wealth, Benedictine Monks at prayer and powerful Abbots scheming. Tapestries, gilded vessels, a peppery smell, worn timber and thick paper, whispers and chanting. Prayer. Misgivings. Death. Abandoned and re purposed. 

I watch sparrows whirl in beneath what remains of what would have been the crossing, the intersection of the four arms, it being a cruciform structure. Small tears slide down my face.  
She steps around into the limestone frame, tiny poesy of daisies, shawl wrapped tight around her. Nubile goddess. My tender seedling within a glass cloche. She begins to walk, down an aisle as it were, to me. 

The closer she arrives, the closer I am to some truth. All has begun to dissolve and purify; borne from the crucible I presently find my mind to be, some essence of our relations. 

She is standing in front of me, her rosy parted lips quietly curious of my streaked face. 

I take a daisy from her bouquet, hold it between us, to weave the closing stanza of my vow. 

“Sweet gracious flower! Mary, you can give me all of happiness I care for. You save me from my idle fantasy,” she smiles, and my eyes wander to the tiny green glittering beaded buds of her shawl at her shoulder “and, pressed to the heart which I believe my own, caressed and treasured there, I will indeed be constant and never, from that moment,” I look into her eyes, “feel a wish or thought for any other, than my wife.” Her breath hitches and she steps closer, lays her hands over each breast of my pelisse seeing my lips tremble. I tuck the daisy behind her ear to give myself a pause.  
“You shall have every smile & every breath of tenderness.” I exhale with some relief, dropping my hands to my sides. “One, shall our union and our interests be. Every wish that love inspires, and every kiss,” oh my tender girl, she sways against me, hands at my collar, her eyes watery, I try to continue, “and every dear feeling of delight, shall only make me more, securely…” I have to collect myself, “and entirely yours” escapes past the clot of emotion in my throat, my eyes burn and lashes shut. Any disguise removed, all pretences abolished, terrified but so alive, I have laid bare to her my heart and soul.

She raises her right hand to my face, presses two fingers against my lips. I press a kiss to the pads of her fingertips. She lingers. Finally I must exhale against her gesture, open my face, her pointer traces my cupids bow, her middle finger nudges my bottom lip. My breaths hasten against her hand as I’m unable to control the effervescence of desire and fear in my chest.  
“And I faithfully yours” she replies. I take hold at her elbows, steadying myself.

She lowers her index finger to my chin. I watch her composed expression process my mottled skin, my reddened eyes, the paleness of my lips from ghostly breath. She looks into my eyes, serene at first, then as she refuses to look away, an intensity that overwhelms my sanities, brings on a sensation of falling backwards, the churches walls ashen, bubbles in my chest cannot tell which way is up, I cannot be certain I can hear, or speak, or think. All I can see is the amber fleck in her eyes, an ethereal lure. Feel I could faint, or disintegrate into the holy ground beneath us, until… the bundle of flowers lays littered at our feet as we kiss, slowly, her sweet exhalation bringing me back to my body, filling my throat with a trusting conviction, an affirming assertion, a moan. Day sees. She turns her head and deepens our kiss, I feel my lungs expanding, my blood enlivened to taste her ambrosia, still the amber sparkles, pulls my top lip between her tongue and top teeth. Punctuates with a chaste peck. Kisses below my nostril. Kisses my cheek. Kisses the tip of my nose. She winks. Ooof.

I feel a wet spot on my cheek. It is threatening rain. We step apart, she attempts to push her escaped curls into the back of her hair-do, though one stubbornly refuses. I wipe my cheek, press fingers against my eyes. Another drop on her neck, against my skirt, we begin to walk out, her on my arm, genuine clouds overhead, gaining speed as we turn the wall, a little yelp as we see the impending downpour move in from across the whipping tree tops, yank up our picnic blanket and her coat, sweep the books into the top of the basket, scrabbling for our hats and gloves just as the shower reaches us, leading the charge big fat drops intense enough to soak our hair, begin to seep into our bodices, splash up against our skirts, sending us running to the enormous tree back down the path, I have hold of her hand to prevent a slip as we hurtle for cover.

We cling together by the waist, picnic remnants tossed against the deeply fluted tree trunk, half bent looking out under the leafy curtain at the weather comes in. She turns in to me with an exhilarated squeal as it begins to pour. Beneath the tree we are sheltered from the worst, a dome of damp air, hear the leaves recoil as they are struck sharply. Our faces are flushed and wet from our race. I wipe a droplet from her lashes with my knuckle. She gives a little shiver and tightens our embrace, pushing her lap against my hip. I push my hand against the cleave of her bum, the tissue like layers of her dress dissolving so that I feel the firm rounds of her, catch a droplet at the end of her nose with my own, am drawn in to plant a little clammy kiss as she sweeps her hands up my neck, her hands warm over my wet skin. Our feet trample a bed of last year’s foliage as we stumble away from the dripping screen, she stops to wring the edges of her skirt as I spread the blanket better. I half fall to my hands and knees, my boots slippery with the autumnal carcasses, turn myself about to sit and nestle into the tree, look up to see her drawing her soggy skirt up her legs, stepping out of her shoes and trying to brush a leaf clinging to her ankle. The rain has eased to a steady patter. She takes my hand to ease down across my parted legs. The trunk of the tree holds us both, I raise my knee to cradle hers, my heavy skirts sag down revealing my drawers, my wrist shields her back from the bark, sweep my left hand over her goosebumps on her calf, her free hand traces my jaw directing our smiles back together to a warm heavy kiss. She toys with the buttons of my pelisse, tugging at my clothes. Parts our kiss, looks down to push the knuckle of her bent index finger in to my thigh at her seat, paining my femoral nerve, rousing the bruised ache stemming from my knot. Weaves her hand up beneath my skirt and drawers to press the same against the top of my sex. It is a pleasurable pain in my pubic bone.

I brush my fingers against her curls. I part her with the very tips of my fingers, petals of her sex, soft, not yet wet with her dew, so delicately soft like the translucent skin of the inner of an orange segment, beneath which one can see the bright flesh ready to burst and spill juice. Sublime. She rocks her pelvis slowly, moving my fingertips against her as she wishes, making taut the folds, feel her knot begin to swell, begin to feel her sap at her entrance. Our breaths whirl into the others face, drying the baby hairs whisping at our temples. My touch continues, light but constant, fluttering over her, as one might sweep their fingers blurring pastel into a landscape scene. She rests her head against the tree, one hand pushing her knuckles against the swelling folds of my sex, the other hand tightly on the roll of skirt now at her waist. I lean to lick the light sweat over her clavicle emphasised with her driving motion against me, taste syrup from our sandwiches, hover at her neck as a bead of water runs from the daisy at her temple. The dichotomy of our actions against each other. Marble and cellulose. Two of her minor knuckles begin to slide between by curls, oiled by my arousal. My fingertips nurse her knot, softly thrumming a harp string, sotto voce. 

Far above us, the leaves bending with trickling water, heavy plops every so often as the quiet descends post the cleanse, here the ceiling to our love-making. The carnal sounds of orgasm radiate towards heaven, become absorbed by the laden boughs of the oak, infiltrates the lamina, travels the arteries, nurtures the life-force far below our bodies, which cling together beneath her coat thrown over us.

'You can give to my heart, a thousand words, or more. All that my eyes can see, is born out of your vision. Rend a black drop from my heart with the weight of days. The end of time has just begun, I hear your name, no straining of the string, no lovers sin, can reverse what will begin.'

I write to M of my return home and my musings of history whilst away. Inspired to share some Wordsworth I pull my original copy from the library shelf, long left untouched, my regular volume downstairs presently. There nestled in the pages, a single daisy petal, yellowed. I press my fingertip into it, clings like a fallen eyelash. I uncork the little jar beside the candle on my desk. Unite it with my Mary’s token of remembrance.

‘I can live upon hope, forget that we grow older, and love you as warmly as ever. Yes, Mary, you cannot doubt the love of one who has waited for you so long & patiently.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and corrections very welcome. I wonder how much post-publish editing I will do. I am humbled by your reading this, thank you.


	10. Yes, Tib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and Dorothy's album ROCKISDEAD, special mention goes to songs Gun in my Hand, After Midnight and Missile, which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, on Monday 3 December 1821, Anne "Got into York at 12. Left the coach at the end of the pavement & walked to Dr Belcombe’s… Isabella Norcliffe & Charlotte here… I rowed Isabella just before dinner for kissing & seizing hold of M—, especially before the housemaid who was passing through, & Tib seemed out of sorts the whole evening. M— very kind and affectionate." Well folks, a titillating story exploring the dynamics between Tib and Mary and Anne, just writes itself. I love these characters, and I admire the people they are inspired by.

In the service courtyard, two roofs meeting at 90 degrees above the scullery door. At one end the access to the work yard proper and the stables, at the other end our hazy low-ceilinged hideout, spare lumbar, crates with ropes, bottles, a broken sweep, discarded tools, vine creeping in from the untended rough garden littered with household refuse, chickens hiding inside an overturned rotting barrel. I’m lounging on the workbench that stores tubs and cutting boards, shoulders against the brick wall, one knee bent tight, boot to my thigh, my black skirt heavy between my legs, other leg idly swinging over the side of the worktop, amusing myself by pushing my cuticles back with my pocket knife. Tib is beside at my left, one foot slung over the other knee, smoking a rollie. Frowns, purses her lips around the twisted end of the papered tobacco, holds her riding boot, scratches shit off the dented buckle, exhales through her nose, narrows her eyes against the acrid plume. Steady rain beyond the edge of the tiled roof. Sick of arguing over card games, too early to start drinking. Servants occupied deep in the house. All else out, making house calls for the afternoon.

“Well I’m not sleeping on the cot” she ejects out the side of her mouth, her foot dropping down as she straightens up, rubs her hip. A recent buster from a horse, made feral from Tib’s lack of discipline and routine I suspect, has her nursing a bruised ego, and rear. She ashes over the edge of the timber bench, held like a pencil.

I examine the thrusted jaw of her profile staring out into the rain. She is a handsome woman, if a bit worn out. Black hair in a clean bun, roguish features leathered by excess, her olive complexion complimented by her brown tweed outfit, a success of elegant, understated trend. We are at ease with one another. I set down my blade tool, closing it smoothly.

“What sort of comfort are you looking for, exactly?” I enquire, genuinely, lean forward pulling by my knee, and take the cigarette from her hand, draw in, settling.

I see her spine stiffen in a jolt from her coccyx, gaze still transfixed on water gushing out a broken gutter in the yard. Toads croak to each other under flower pots.

Her large hand lands hard on my thigh in what I could receive as a slap. Then she grips, her thumb especially strong, transmitting a historically accurate message to my sex. Yes Tib. 

Smoke curls between my open mouth and into my nose, she cranes around, eyes dark.

“Somewhere soft to lay my head, I’d hazard.”

She watches my eyes dart from a steady, smouldering return, over her shoulder.

“Oh, speaking of…” I murmur, sitting forward tidily as Mariana’s figure in emerald plaid appears at the entrance from the stables across the way, strained eyes locked to assess her expression obscured by heavy rain. She observes, wiping her hands together broadly. I lick my lip, moving a piece of stray tobacco, spitting it away, watching her watching us.

I do not feel provoked of any particular response to Tib’s hand remaining on my knee, until she breaks my trance, tips to the side playfully, needles her elbow in below my hip, reaching across me to take the remnants of her cigarette. And my knife. Yes Tib.

“My turn, Annie” she grunts, pushing away from my leg. I wonder how Mariana sees this, our touch.

“What makes you think I’m going to share the bed?” I counter, turning to her, crossing my arms, rising my brow lightly, humoured. Water splutters over the rim of a wash pan long living in the yard.

She extracts a fresh roll from her waist pocket, and makes to light it from the fading end of the other. Sucks in her cheeks getting it going. Offers me back. I refuse, burying my wrists under my elbows. She gives a little chuckle that irritates me.

“I’m not asking. I’m letting you know. My turn.” She shuffles forward and launches off the bench into the dirt. Sore hind, my arse. Crunches her heel onto the leftover. Saunters over to Mary, who now stands on the step by the scullery door, gives a greeting of familiarity, “Darling!” The toes of Tib’s boots kick the step. Watch their murmurs drowned by the drumming overhead. I know the script of thinly veiled innuendo, disguised as gregarious flattery. Watch them lean together, Tib handling the silk edged reticule laying against Mary’s waist, tightening the loop around her wrist, both their gazes lowered. Mary gifts me a furtive glance, pouts to Tib, scolds her playfully about something, wagging her finger. Tib’s lips twitch, stares up to Mary’s smile, throws in a lewd quip, takes a deep drag of her cigarette. Mary grins impishly, blushing, grips Tibs arm for balance and leans forward into her face, close enough my throat constricts, expecting she could kiss, pauses a hairs breadth away from Tib’s heavy mouth, drawing in her gentle exhalation of tobacco smoke, poisonous vapour wafting around their faces.

Mary jumps away with a cough as the bucket crashes into the timber as I hurl it off the bench. Tib swings around to me, nonplussed, rolls her eyes putting her hands on her hips. Mary retreats inside with a giggle. Finishing her cigarette, Tib holds it between her index and middle fingers against her mouth. I shake my head. Exhales from the corner of her mouth and she raises her hand to point like a pistol at me, thumb cocks the hammer. Winks. I groan. Drops her hand and smouldering paper. Follows Mary in.

I sit watching the never ending rain. 

After a cordial dinner with the entire family, strategically ignoring Tib’s tipsy efforts to prove she has charmed Mary, a letter arrives for me and I take leave for the guest room, acquiescing to earlier instruction. An hour passed alone with correspondence, then I disrobe to my shirt tucked into a plain petticoat, with my boots put by the door to be polished. All hushed about the dim house. 

Open the ornate door following the yawning maid into Mary’s chambers, firelight waving from her annexed dressing room. Lone candelabra by the bedside, navy velvet bed curtains drawn back by the oak headboard, a heavy asymmetrical fringe to a strange shadowed stage. Tib has removed her coat, but lies in bed still in her herringbone vest and skirt, reclined into the pale pillows, right arm buried unseen, left arm pushed behind her head. She is so casual, I furrow my brow, puzzled. Mary kneels cumbersomely in the bed beside her, facing the door, her chequered dress a mess, the bodice half unbuttoned, skirt lumped around them. Her flushed pink face, in stark contrast to Tib’s nonchalance. The maid is oblivious to what we seem to have interrupted. Mary makes to rise and move but halts abruptly with a wince, white knuckled grip on her skirt. Yes Tib.

The maid tidies about, sets out various nightclothes and a tray of Mary’s potions and poultices on the bedside stand, with a solid brass pestle and mortar to prepare the remedy for her complaints. I pause by the bureau to steady myself, observing the bizarre scene upon the bed, Mary’s eyes watering, licking her lips, struggling for equanimity, tight curls of hair damp at her nape, torso bolt upright, hands trembling in her skirt crushed beside Tib’s thigh. Tib murmuring a banal description of her travels into town that morning, how long the horses took to be changed over. At last Mary interrupts, to dismiss her maid with candelabra in hand, states Tib and I will be administering her medicine this evening, thank you. My apprehension eases, her voice is strong and clear. Tib seems surprised but does not argue. Whatever the hell is happening, Mary has permitted it.

Tib sits up in the bed, snakes her left hand around the waist to finish unbuttoning and removing Mary’s bodice, and begins untying her skirt and numerous petticoats.  
“Well then, dessert Annie? Our… petite… bonbon?” she gestures me to join her, and to unwrap the treat. I crawl up, kneel on the mattress to Mary’s free side, low light obscured, begin drawing her clothes up over her head, layer by layer, fabric catches on her elbow and in freeing it, trace the welts earnt before they were disturbed, her eyes rolling over to me in her mysterious expression. Mussing her hair, throwing fabric to the floor, unpinning the main plait at her crown, transcendental dissension, shadows expanding, eyes glistening. Her hands grip her thighs, Tib smirking behind her, rolling up the hem of Mary’s chemise, shoving the fabric into lacing, I bite my bottom lip, as Mary emits a long wavering breath and a tearless sob, “Tib, darling”, her belly slumps a little beneath her corset and she gives a tremulous shiver, wants to part her knees more. But can’t quite.

Finally revealed to me, in the darkness below the fresh scratches to the skin of her round bum, her ankles, crossed and tightly bound together by a thick red cotton cord borrowed from the bed post, tassel tickling her soles. Toes a touch tinged mauve.

Sleeve rolled, the muscle of Tib’s fore-arm rests on her calf, big agile hand at her sex. “Stay sweet, bonne pute” Tib’s purr lands in the small of her back and Mary grits her teeth groaning, a plea, countered by a wink to me. Stokes a frenzy of yearning and infuriation within my belly. Tib takes hold of the end of her plait, pulls her head back, I want to watch, so move around, push my hands under hers against her thighs, anchoring her wider. See her pulse bounding at her jugular. Smell her odour, her sourness, tangled with Tib’s sighs of tobacco and rum. Huffs of my own lusting essence fly, homogenous catalyst to the numbing ether hanging heavy in our midnight assembly.

Tib’s thumb pushed deep into Mary’s queer, folds taut around her gesture. Her index and middle finger twitching against the knot of her sex. I know from experience that she bends her thumb, pressing in over the band of tendons forming the stout bottle neck of the entrance, immobilising the pelvis with the threat of a deep, painful, correcting prod, pinning sex in place, capturing the urge to roll against her hand to instead force deep contraction. Pad of her thumb firm against the coin sized swelling of fleshy sulci and gyri. Now pulls the trigger over and over, sound of crude slickness mixes with the efforts of my girl, working hard to avoid the punishment and gain the reward. She begins to squeak, her breasts heave, she grips my wrists, her thighs tense almost to cramping, feet jerk against their binding. I watch her swallow with difficulty, want to try to kiss her, but her desperation for my mouth is too obvious as she strains, rising from Tib’s hand, guttural sound from her throat as she bites my lip. 

Our kiss breaks apart as Tib pulls out of her suddenly, aborting the peak of pleasure, slaps her wet hand against the base of Mary’s buttocks. Mary judders against my face, stifling a shriek. Tib grips with her fingertips, pulling her creases open. Grunts. “Now I see why you cannot behave. Annie has spoilt you. Ruined your manners, Mary. It pleases no one. Pupil corrupted by the peer.” She snarls, pulling angrily, deeply into Mary’s bum, throws her plait over her shoulder. Tib cannot see the mischievous grin my girl gives me. 

“Oh Fred has taught me many lessons.” I kiss her deeply with thanks, sweep my thumbs over the fullness of her cheekbones. Tib rolls her eyes, wipes her hand on the sheets. “What could she know that I didn’t bloody teach her first?” she grumps.

Mary breaks my kiss, laughs quietly. “Would you like a little education, my darling?”

Pecks my nose.

I reach around and begin pulling at the fasting at my girl’s precious slim ankles. Very tight. Scrabble in Tib’s skirt pocket for my knife, hold Mary’s bum protectively, work the blade beneath the knot and carefully jolt, cut through. I ease her over on to her back, beside Tib, take wide warm hands to her knees, squeeze her calves, palm the prominences of her malleolus, comforting her. 

Tib smiles and begins to reach to her thighs again. “Oh darling no, you must receive tutelage first.” Tib narrow her eyes, pouts. I crouch between my sweet girl’s legs, bringing our laps together in a familiar connection, her hands behind my neck. Kiss and nip at her bust above her corset. Push my hips against her and she giggles with delight, grips my shoulder blades, cheekily digs her heels into the backs of my thighs. Continue as I hear Tib groan watching us, draws up the side of her skirt, tries to touch her self over layers.

Mary pauses our activity to swat at Tib, “No, no. You mustn’t be so selfish. What a disgraceful student. Lesson One: Pay attention!” We all chuckle, and I lean back on my heels and pull the red cord from amongst the scrambled blankets. Mary wiggles out from beneath me and pounces on Tib who has brought her knees to her chest. Grabs her hands, feigning a bite to her cheek, kisses her temple, holds her so that I can bind Tib’s wrists, which I take delight in prolonging. Tib purses her smiling lips, pretends to growl, reticent eyes swinging between us leaning over her. “A thousand apologies, Madame” she mutters as I eventually secure the knot. Our laughter subsides, the playful mood subdued. Mary kisses the knuckles of Tib’s clasped fists. I do the same. Mary draws me up from my act of forgiveness, finger to my chin, slowly reuniting our energy, brings her face to mine, soft adoring eyes newly bright. A delicate, chaste kiss to my lips, remains close, kisses again, biting my lip, and I feel all around us slipping deeper into shadow, Tib though only a foot away feels the other side of a chasm, silent, disarmed. No longer a threat.

Mary tugs my shirt and we crawl back amongst the pillows, draw her legs up around me, kiss her face, cuddle into her body. My sweet girl reaches out to her bedside stand and pulls the brass pestle from the mortar, slides it beneath her pillow to warm it against the sheets. “Oh my lord”, we smile hearing Tib’s realisation. I continue to grind into Mary, rolling her around to loosen her corset and pull it away, take time tonguing and nipping the striations in the skin over her torso. I move to her side so she is in the middle of us all, arrange pillows beneath her limbs. With a final flourish she produces the pestle, bounces the broader knobbed end against her sternum and hands me control, a trill of excitement across my own sex. I lean on one arm and gently hammer with the pestle, down to her navel, upend it and lick it broadly, knock it against her hip bone, slide down and kiss her other hip and knock there too. She pulls up her feet, knees shakily bending over a down filled cushion as I drag the heavy instrument towards her sex. Her eyes roll back at the solid pressure against her knot, I slide between her slippery folds and she slacks her legs to let me in. She covers her eyes with wrists. I tease her, moving and pressing only just hard enough. She murmurs unintelligibly. Tib, comfortable in her bounding, curled against the pillows, watches in quiet awe. I begin to push into her properly and her pelvis beckons me. Slowly her supple queer welcomes the brass, concupiscent, dark pink sucking in metal, genesis of an orogeny, of a deep unyielding pleasurable presence. I leave it be within her stilled body, ease down between her legs to look up along the mountain range of her seized torso, fading light dropping away to darkness along her sagittal crest, fragile heartbeat in the dark nipple atop her breast. I nudge the pestle gently, bumping her cervix, eliciting a unique, mournful cry of grief and pleasure that brings tears to my eyes. Tib looks frightened. I kiss the top of her sex. Tongue her knot. She clenches around the instrument in response. I work her, drawing out a little, pressing in, tonguing, eliciting her reply. Eventually her answer is perpetual, her knot cloistered within my lips, her peak of pleasure looming, once more I direct against the zenith of her womb and the will of every fibre of her being seems to converge upon our amalgam of flesh and alloy. 

Her sobs subside and permit the return to the mortar, ease her deep into my arms, soothe and caress her exhausted frame on the verge of slumber. Tib rolls her wrists and easily extracts herself from the cord, free all along, but subservient to my prowess. We smile to one another, guardians of her Sybaris.  
Yes, Tib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and correction very welcome!


	11. Trials and Tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let's not with all that pretense, babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and playlist including:  
Unravel Me by Sabrina Claudio  
Tapestry by Liv Dawson  
You Don't Know by Lizzie Loveless  
Skinful by Mirror Fury  
which I recommend as tunes for your read. According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, between December 1821 and January 1822 spend time together in York and then Halifax. The entries detail a very unpleasent interaction with Mrs Belcombe, Anne's frustration and folly, documented amongst reports of disease in the local area, her observations of others, the performance of horses, and two mishaps she has steering the gig. She writes of being tired, of attending errands and the sums of money she pays. A beautiful little entry about the York Minster. Details of her time back at Shibden playing cards and then specifics of being with M.  
How lucky we are to have this source of inspiration.  
Enjoy.

The fortnight before Christmas in York and about the place had been irritating, or rather, M’s mother had been irritating, and I, irate. The lengths I go to, to placate this woman, I may as well be slave to them both. Implying I am moronic regarding M, for making my plans about her, being silly. Most frustrating, to then adjust my own inclinations, to walk and situate myself with the others to and during our engagements, to distance myself from M. I am mastered by illogical propriety and am miserable for it. I cannot appease her, silent at dinner she asks for my voice and my chest spasms with rage containing a shouting response. I see where M gets an aspect of her difficult temperament from.  
M ameliorates as best she can, but it all stirs me up except when pen is to paper. The cold weather and my distracted mind impedes my performance handling the horses, though I won’t own it, and we have two upsets, the second of which leaves M quite disturbed. I feign coolness and grit my teeth to keep it all together, I just want to get us away. The jewel in the thorny crown of the week is being with M in the Minster Christmas day, watching dazzling candle light diffused by the magnificent internal structure, to be in church a warm embrace of love, of guidance and assurance.  
It gives me great determination. To be in church with her is truly holy. 

And so with gracious thanks, we are finally home, home for a few for the turn of the year.

My elderly family at dinner oblivious, I spill wine half intentionally into the crux of my lap so that I am blotting my skirt, dabbing and scrubbing almost obscured by the table, the obscenity of this imaginable only to M who fidgets in her chair, trying to use her napkin to pat her mouth delicately to hide her delight.

In my room watching another midnight come and go, light of a tarnished candelabra absorbed by heavy dark furniture. Tray of combs and pins, and our humble attempts at re-creating a pousse-café on English soil souring. Each on small stools. M in front of me, doing my hair. Jostling each other legs whilst sitting, she stands periodically to correct something at the crown of my style, her knee folds down between mine returning to her perch, shuffles in on the pretext of pushing a curl just right, her kneecap knocks high inside my thigh as she tucks her flopping fringe back.  
Murmuring of instruction. Soft giggles and chastisement, the drag of her slipper over the rug knocks the side table, fortunately it is enough to unite our reactions to steady it, but is not enough to disturb the liquor, nor the tender tautness of our proximity. Return to our task. It is relaxing with her hands in my hair, and familiar and so easy, her brushing soothing me, she is so charming and her hands and pins nimble, and her expression of concentration so precious, as she avoids meeting the candour of my puddling eyes, intermittently provoking a vexing feeling in my head and chest like having snuffed pepper, a intoxicating dichotomy of sleepiness and the threat of involuntary violent reflex reaction, a sneeze from my soul. Our thighs work closer together, leaning, folding layers of skirt. She provides a summarising tease of my ineptitude styling my hair. I laugh softly, feeling heavy blinks trying to brake my approaching outburst.

“Fuck you.” 

////

Earlier in our romance, as we negotiated her impending marriage, we visited each other frequently. York agreed with us more then. For some time I had found strands of her auburn hair caught precariously on the short-stitch embellished throw which complimented the ornate French sleigh bed, the decoy, in the guest bedroom I pretended to sleep in at her family home. Long fine wires of mystery almost the same colour as the timber, unexpected, away from our pillows, our brush or dressing room. I would count and keep them, plaited between beads of wax, laid in the end papers of my journal. She would smile and shrug at my investigative line of inquiry. Almost every Sunday, new threads of her weaving, a tapestry that would become longer than Bayeux, and with more wounded. And far more raptured.

Peace is produced by war

I would return from making visits after church, and she would be occupied in various chores, sometimes in my room, rearranging flowers, sometimes organising books. I would steal a chaste kiss to her brow when I could, stand close by her at the bookcase or washstand. I would nose her mane over her ear, pinch the fine shorter hairs at her nape, dig and twist curls and pull. She might take my hand, might take my fingertips in her mouth and bite the centres of my nails till they blanched, with neat sharp nips. I would observe the rush of blood back to my capillaries. 

Explanation of her pretty head rolling feverishly in the middle of the spare bed finally availed itself one afternoon I returned through the house with my normal volume from charming acquaintances. My initial thought was she had caused herself injury, immobile as she was, as I swept in without knocking for entry to the strange prospect. She lay centred at the bottom of the bed, her bunched skirts haphazardly covering her thighs resting against the curve of the foot board, bare feet drooping from legs cascading over the scrolled crest. What do we have here? The room hot and odd, I swung the door shut and as I hurriedly approached the bedside to assess her, I smelt a familiar cloying scent.  
My jaw pained me.

Her head is rolled away toward the window. Breathing softly, she strokes the bed with an expanding gesticulation, a reversed clawing, from her knuckles to her nails. All other movement in the room ceases, I can see the fibres of the throw prickling in a new direction charted by her fine oval tipped digits. There is a flash of something unnatural and demonic in these tendons of her extremities flicking over bone. I smooth the bed down beside her hips, catching up her hand.  
“Mary.”  
She languorously turns her head to me.  
“Yes?”  
“Show me?”  
“Yes?”  
“You want me to see?”  
“Yes.”  
“Yes?”  
“I do.” 

Self love is the source of all our other loves

In my periphery a rolling action recommences in her hips. I watch her face, little creases winging from her lash line. She wets her raw bottom lip, hear her heels knock like spurring the walk on, squeaking flub of the hot skin behind her knees against the timber. My fingers threaded in hers she brings us down to the petticoat flipped up at her peaked knees trembling to stay closed, together we pull the skirt back up her thighs. Illicit, tender. Watch her hips pitch, legs gripping, curls of her sex gliding down along the belt-wide protruding band of wood joining the two halved waves of timber. She strikes a protracted, measured lash, pelvis tipped forward, stretching her navel, deep in her lap the crook of her pubic bone meeting thighs, skein of dark hair being wound tighter. I exhale and hook our index fingers, pull hard, jerking her hand away from skirt, where lace embellishments spring back ever slightly, autonomously, remembering their starched instruction. Her dress rustles as she squeezes her buttocks to slide her sex up, interjects quick ruts pressing deeply against her hidden folds. 

“Clever girl. What a clever trick, what a skill. You can be very pleased. Can you satiate yourself Mary?”

Her knees slack wider. It is the most erotic thing to watch her seek out the pressure of polished wood against the border of cochineal pink of her sex. Turgid, plump, laden. She has been at this some time. I disconnect our hands and move around to stand at the end of the bed, roll her skirts right up around her waist. I bend and roughly take her ankles, lift and part them producing a gasp, synapses of viscous wetness webbed. Hook her heels on the timber ridge and slide my hands up to hold the meat of her calves, by the back of her knees. Feel the gristle of her kneecaps grate and click under my thumbs, as I grip, and expand the locus.

“Are you going to try a little harder? Can you? I think you can work for it.” 

Her hips move again to bare down, the joinery of the foot board begins to part her. A surfacing in my mind of squashing fat gooseberries with my child palm, pith and flesh and seeds burst from shining grotesquely veined skin. 

“Clever girl. I can hear you. Can you hear yourself, can you hear the little slipping noise you make? So delicate. So neat and perfect. Don’t you think?” 

She groans softly, I now have the weight of her legs in my hands, her feet nod flaccidly at my sides, and her bum is nestled where mattress meets rosewood, she is free to grind and work herself. I lean in slightly, tops of my thighs swish against the bed. I look down appreciatively. 

“How pretty and flushed you are. How succulent. Clever thing to fuck yourself.” 

She pants at my vulgarity. She squeezes shut her eyes, grips her thighs, spreading the wobbling plush of the underside, crawling deeper to draw apart her buttocks, arching, chasing the new exposure. Watch her, perturbed but painfully aroused. Disturbed by the ferocity with which she digs into her delectable blubbery skin, little grunts trying to trap her knot effectively. She is good, but is she good enough for me always? A shudder across her abdomen, close but wearying.

“Mary. You think you can do it? You want to, I can see. You do it yourself. You show me. Prove me wrong” I whisper feigning admiration, hiding my anger with stealth.

She pouts a little, frowns a little, a hand would bring her faster, why should I tease? 

“I want you bruised, all of you. I want you up from this bed afterwards sore with the memory. Swollen till you threat to split, remorseful. Regretful. A tragedy. Because you can’t help but fuck yourself along like this. Ride along and try to take care of yourself, prolong our agony and chase, and then have to beg for my help. It’s futile. So, for once, work for it.” 

I lean over with all my weight and push her closed knees back hard towards her torso. Her sex is taut, dark, suspended mid-air. Vulnerable and tight.  
“Dilemme cornelian.” 

Treachery is noble when aimed at the tyranny that is love

She laughs. And kicks against her restraint, kicks up, lands a couple into my ribs and belly. I am crazed by the aggravation, her will and my temper, my want and her performance. She jerks her knees apart and it unbalances me, have to bring a hand down to the bed to catch myself, her leg comes up beside me, hooks her foot around to kick down with her heel into the middle of my back, grabs me with both hands by my lapels. I am bent over, trapped, annoyed, damp and hard between my legs.

“Fuck you”. 

////  


It is out of my mouth and into her head and the ceiling of our edifice tingles dryly, both of us dazed. I stand up unceremoniously, a little stiff and stilted, stumble to put something away, throw it against the base of the mirror in the washstand. She stares narrowly into the middle distance. A mutual exasperation exchanged as we swallow in unison. Go and stand in close behind her still on the stool. Isolate a little curl behind her ear and gently twist it. Grip her neck. Could scruff her like a puppy in its mother jaws. Instead bring my hands to massage from the angle of her mandible, hands and fingers spread up either side of her ears, she opens her mouth deeply eliciting a pop from her jaw as her eyes close, my right index finger wobbles at the swollen lymph node over her mastoid, beneath which I apply my thumbs. I press in, and push up, taking the weight of her skull, lengthening her cervical spine, pausing her breath, raising her hackles. Weaving my fingers into her hair I see the tremble skitter across her knees and thighs as her arms hang limp by her sides. Lean her head back against my body, bump against her back with my lap.  
Up swims a different memory of shopping many years ago, using the excuse of a crushing crowd to press against her skirt with my lap, gripping her wrist with a ferocity that excited us.  
Now slide my hands through her hair to the crown, scratch her scalp, timidly, afraid of myself. Pull her by this hold to bump my lap again, satiating the shiver across my pubic bone to see her gasp push her breasts, with greater permission than she had been afforded in the dingy packed market. I untangle my left hand, slide it around to clutch her throat just beneath her chin, tip her face right up, gripping her hair as a rein with my right to elicit a little wince in her inverted features, upside down expression of arousal, suspended between my pull and push. Kiss each eyelid like they were her mouth, my wet lips tickled by her wet eyelashes. See her happy frowning mouth release a soft chuckled moan, broken by her extended neck, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling at her back teeth. A beat. Pull her tresses in my hand against my lap. 

Watch tears slide down her temple into her hairline.  
I could wring her neck. Like a fowl, errant miniature downy feathers catching on the sawn bark of drying timber. Bloodless.  
For a moment, I am as likely to caress her as I am to hurt. Here the abomination of desolation.

I feel my reasoning tip toe back in. Can imagine on a scale of molecular magnification, the odour of her, the oil of her body, the essence of my girl, permeating my skin, out, damned spot, changing the surface of me, like a brook side creep of moss expecting the water vapour of fog but instead bathed in wood smoke, the tiny probes of carpeting growth seeking nutrients from the air, hurt, disturbed in an exchange of deception.

Fie.

I release her hair, lean in to slide the other hand down her throat, permitting and guiding her swallow into her chest, run my hand down to her sternum, cradling a final little whimper of submission as I bump my lap against the back of her again, parting my knees more to try to roll my hips against her. Feel little wires of her hair pulled out by my discipline netted in my fist. They feel alive, worming, tickling me, coaxing my hand open and soft and they float down to our feet trying to take away with them the violence from my heart.

With soft fingertips I guide her to stand, press against her from behind, she responds beneath my hands, head lolling, shoulders heaving, the arch in her back, the flexion of her form devilish, juts her bum against me and her breasts into my roving grasps. Sweet but loaded. Gather up material and reach for her. Cup her sex and grip her flesh, pull up over her mound until my palm skims her navel. Nudge her legs apart with mine, hold her waist and guide her to lean right over, roll her skirt up her legs and arse, as she steadies her straightened arms on her stool. I roll into the base of her exposed. Watch her wetness glisten on my skirt mingling with the stain from the dinner table. Lift a layer of my dress and repeat the treatment, her elbows locked out but her head wants to drop. The final layer, through the split in my drawers my own curls, damp with my own expression. I grind against her and she flies up from the stool at the sensation of skin against skin, a hand grabs my wrist clenching her waist and wriggles her bum at my lap. I dig my thumb in beneath where her scapula pops from her other arm reaching back aimlessly. Push in hard, intention in my hand alone of cleaving all apart. Feel her nails dig into the striving tendons of my grip at her rib side.

How delicious is pleasure after torment

In this gesture I know we have secured an equilibrium. Mutual aggression, frustration, fear. We are as much a danger to one another. Two beads of water contained spherically by tension across their surface. And thus the hazard is nullified. We are humbled, and subservient to something greater than ourselves. I let her go, and we walk over to the bed solemnly, pulling away our clothes. I can’t look at her. I climb in and lay the wrong way round, kicking and dragging pillows around and up beneath my bum. The tituli is written, the cries to start the battle of Armageddon awaiting our exit, all was decided long ago. She climbs up onto me, entwining our bent legs, brings her sex to mine. It is the time of the end, in our hearts.

Matthew 24:29  
Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken: And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other

I unravel, unfurl, come undone. Above me she is mighty, omnipotent, heralding. Our hearts are mutually and entirely attached. We never loved and trusted each other so well and have promised ourselves to be together in six years from this time. Heaven grant it may be so. Whether we are to endure or not, I am not certain. But of the rapture, of the ending in the embrace of love after a life of servitude, I am.

To vanquish without peril is to triumph without glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and corrections welcome.


	12. I thee wed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gentleman Jack, The Secret Diaries by Helena Whitbread and anything by Muna you like, plus maybe Banks' Gimme, and Till Now. Listen to I don't Love You by Cruel Youth, Black Sea by Natasha Blume, Serious love by Anya Marina, DELIGHTFUL by Dounia... you want a real rollercoaster ok? According to diary extracts as per Helena Whitbread's wonderful book, Anne learns of M's marriage in January 1815. In September 1817, she recalls the summer of 1815, in love and in bed at a friends. In March 1816 M is married, right before Anne's eyes.  
To quote Anne: Love scorned to leave the ruin desolate; & Time & he have shaded it so sweetly, my heart still lingers in its old abiding place, thoughtless of its broken bowers, save when some sudden gust blows thro’, & screeching memory is disturbed.

It is my love? Ask again that question, speak again in that soft voice, and look again with wishes in thy eyes. Oh no. Thou canst not. Canst thou forgive me then. Will thou believe so kindly of my fault to call it madness. Ill give that madness yet a milder name, and call it passion. Then be still more kind, and call that passion, love.

//

We move strategically out of the room. Tidying, giving directions, making arrangements for tomorrows expeditions around town, finalising mail and the mending of punished winter stockings. I think I have won the race to the stairs when a snarky apparition beats me. Out darts her tongue. Oof.

Up the stairs. I have letters of yuletide greeting to collate. Why, why does she insist on going first, when she is so tediously unhurried, this laborious ascent, hand sliding up the rail between grips, soft drag and tap from a bracelet on her wrist. She couldn’t dream of taking steps two at time. I clear my throat, pinch at the corners of my papers. If it were possible, she slows further. I could want to push past her. But I won’t let her manner worsen mine. Hmm. Indeed I need to demonstrate exceptionally good humour and genteelness, I frown engrossed in a sum amongst my letters. Take the stairs deliberate as I must, mind transported back to the conversation documented, wonder how I will rectify matters, how I will take care of myself, perhaps another move. I glance down at my signature, dredging up memory of wanting home as a child. I must be clever. Exceptionally so.

All abandoned as my pensive gaze rises and is accosted by M’s bust. She has turned on the stairs and stopped, and I am close enough I could bite a button from her gown. 

“Change your mind Mary?” I quip darkly, little sneer.

“Thought you must’ve become lost, and been left behind” she retorts. I bare my teeth and she spins, grips the slink of her long straight cotton gown and trots up the stairs, little bounce in her haunches and bum doing nothing to dissuade my malevolent grin.  
I rush in following her, locking the door, throwing my letters on the desk, keen as I am to be with her in private. We face and I take her round the waist and her hands press in prayer to my chest, smack a kiss into her forehead savouring the collaboration of our bodies. Can’t quite catch our breaths.  
“I have a sensational quandary! It’s all quite something. Something indeed, Anne.” she chirps.  
I swing her around giddily, press my thumbs into her ribs just right to make her giggle.  
“What, what, what?” my response whispered into her dangling fringe. I spy the ready mattress over the top of her, know my socks lay waiting on my side for the morning, figure the candles we have should suffice, though I…

“Shall he and I be wed, Anne?”

//

This January day, born so full of hoping heart, ended in such a heinous bereavement, wavering light snuffed, ‘us’ rescinded, as tears fell. Oh how it broke the magic of my faith, forever. This tenacious suspension of disbelief, revealed perilous by her security of worldly needs, her avarice, cupidity. How, spite of love, this January day burst the spell that bound my very reason. Her. Me. Us.

//

I think that we both know,  
this is the love we won’t get right

//

A long day out visiting. Mid afternoon sends us to rest, and revivify our attire. The bathing annex of our host’s guest room provides us some seclusion.  
Laughing sighs, hands and feet a little swollen and itchy with the heat of the day, I loosen her ties and she mine, pull an errant wisp of grass from her hair, feel the second skin of grime in our dried sweat, suppress the rage we have being so over dressed for the weather, try to keep a good humour, peeling off our costumes, watch her struggle pulling the tight waist of her dress over her bust, elbows jostling, hot frustrated twisting. I kneel on the floor by the wide flat sponging basin to wash, frothing a scoop of soft soap. Pink in the face she stands, folding at her hips to dunk her cloth into the pail beside the hip bath, rising to wipe her brow and hair line.  
Arms of a casement window open in a shy embrace to encourage some exchange of air, sound of a cart wheel accelerating over stone, sheep on the move to shade with the dogs, a miasma of forlorn swelter, swarms of midges over steaming bogs, horse flies driven by the scent of perspiration.  
Clink of crockery, grate of the stool, water splashes and hums of relief to be refreshed, despite the claustral heat of the room.  
Holds a long bath sheet to her front, holds her face. Thinnest muslin cloth unites with the water droplets on her body, adheres to her breasts, her belly and thighs. Pats her cheeks, wipes her mouth, stamps her feet a little. Steps out of the corner and comes across to my basin as I drape my towel over my shoulder.  
She considers me, holding pleats of the cloth against her chin. Her eyes move down across my half bare chest, my legs folded under me.  
Suppliant at her feet. I eye the osmotic soak creeping from her sole print onto the floor. She shifts her weight, flicks a foot. Leaves the ghostly puddles and steps into my basin. I watch her feet beneath the swirling glaze atop the opaque. Wiggles her toes. I put down my wrung out cloth.  
I lean forward and kiss the inside of her knee where the towel ends, rest my temple here, skin to skin damp and fresh flare of sweat threatening to bead. Stare down her calves, watching the tendons in the top of her ankle quiver instruction to her foot, a scratch in her arch likely stings in the lye of the mixture.  
I lift my head, nose in under the cloth and kiss up, kiss high up her thigh, become Lady Justice blindfolded, feign impartiality in M’s condemnation. Lick the sublimely smoother skin where her thighs walk past one another every day. 

And there it is,  
A mark of the divine.  
Are you taking me to the end of desire?

Pull away and the blinds fall. I rise up and kiss her hip bone, prominent from the cloth. She bites a mouthful of towel to keep it raised as her hands over mine slide together around to her bare rear. Nose across below her navel. Squeeze at her bum encouraged by her grasping hands. Start to mouth the crease of her lap, drawing fabric between my teeth with my tongue. Press the flat of it into the point of concurrency of her pubic bone. Her little groan subdued by her stuffed mouth. We each hold a bite as I slide my right hand around from her bum, up beneath the curtain, fingers tips tickling up her thigh, little waves in the basin as she widens her stance, pulling apart her self, herself. I brush at her sex with my knuckles, a drip of spittle at the corner of her mouth absorbed in the sheet, clear blood of the ethereal white drape spilling from her head. On my next pass, push my fingers in parting her. Colloidal quality to her wetness, heavy and clinging. An emulsion with a barely perceptible grit. Liquefied sorrow, and sin. I push firm flat strokes against her entrance and she rolls her head back, tugging the towel out of my mouth at her lap. Coax and push at her here in a shallow pet, a summoning beg pulses from deeper in her but I deny it. Pull away, ignoring a tease past her knot. Escape her sex, but rest my hand against her thigh top. She looks down. Watches me suck my fingers through the cloth, lips pursed around my shrouded knuckles. 

Something surrenders, or is realised. “Come come come” she gabbles, stepping backwards out of the basin, milky drops flying in the humidity, out of my embrace, beginning to topple, the towel hanging from her mouth becomes centred between her breasts and thighs, knees buckling, arms reaching back wildly, I crawl on all fours around the basin and meet her folding, onto a seat of piled linens, the bottom of her towel tight between her legs and fastened under her bum. I slink straight into her, between her legs, head butt her stomach, mouthing and biting at her and she scrabbles backwards to stretch out. I go to push her back so she rests on her elbows, am about to lick the fabric beneath her breast… when she is doused, sound of water purling, I receive the resulting splash as we knock the pail down from the rickety stool. We gasp. The bucket rolls off her with a clunk and loops a semi-circle away from us, dribbling.  
She lays half reclined, stunned and soaked. I rest my head to the saturated cloth over her sternum. Feel the water under my palms against the floor at her ribs. I raise my head, turn it and lap at the pool at her jugular notch.

Our giggle begins deep in our chests until we are wheezing with laughter. It crests, and begins to settle, murmurs of mirth and undecided sobs of grief amongst kisses and hushing. 

I pull back, rest on my knees and take her in. She looks up at me, rueful. A little death in this moment, a quill splitting flinging ink, a splinter breaking off embedded. She eases off her elbows and lays back, begins to pull at the top corners of the dripping cloak to cover her body, shy. Secured end under her bum, then a single twist taut between her legs over her sex, I read the white woven scroll backwards, watch it peel inverse, clinging and groping, watch how it broadly glides up over her torso, in some places compartments of air bulge and boil beneath it, in others it becomes a translucent, slimy window to her body. Little pearls of soapy slop sweep down the chines eroded by her motion, tiny waterfalls in the soft landscape. She gathers and pulls it up, up over her head intending to block my view of her face. My kneecaps burn, grazed by the wet timber floor as I lean forward again trying to stay above the rising shield, clamber over her spread legs. No no no. 

I swoop in, my face meets the wet fabric, masking my mouth, strained against my lips as I continue down into her, a kiss latching to her pant. My lips suck hers, brings a little water from the cloth against the roof of my mouth. Swallow. Her hands surrender to the floor above her head, the sodden material melds with her face. We bite and pull at each other divided by the frailest of barriers, weave of cotton warping between our mouths, pushing a pocket in with my tongue against hers drawn back.

Her mouth, a water well lidded by a permeable net, pink lips gasping beneath the veil, shoal suspended across her eye sockets. See her nostrils flaring, recycling the air beneath the cloth, trying to draw fresh through the cloak. 

How far do we go? She can rescue herself if she needs. I am reassured by her hands now soft and fingers gently waving.

I rest some weight on her waist, jolt of cold wet cloth between my bare legs. Encourage her with this restriction to inhale slow and deep into her belly. One hand by her head, the other grips her breast and pushes it up, then slides towards her neck, expressing the water from the towel, bringing a miniature tide up over her décolletage, forcing the flow of trickling ravine over her shoulders. I ease my palm off, press the tips of my thumb and fingers to traverse either side of her trachea. A little spasming jump in her elbows. Behind my arse she slowly rocks her sex against the twisted fabric, a story felt in my own sex against the same.

Push with a wide slow moving grip up beneath her jaw, thumb sliding in towards her left ear, and first two fingers to her right, deeply enough I feel the strong pulse of her arteries. I vigilantly watch her own hands for their response as I press firmer to her rhythm, delicate obstruction. La soffoco, ostentanda la sua modestia, statua di pudicizia, formata da Corradini. 

I deprive her. 

She raises her hands but it is not the signal I expect. She draws the veil down her face and it gathers at my wrist, stepping around the obstacle. The disguise for a masquerade ball with wedding cake, no longer contributes to her deficit, but for where it presses to her under my hand. Vapour across her brow. Her eyes flutter and weep. Her legs convulse spastically, her wrists grapple at my thighs, a breathless moan under my grip. Her face reddens. The longer we wait, the more intense the rush tends to be.

She is depraved. 

I let go, and slither down her body immediately, blowing air over her, then biting lumps of the prickling goose bumps. She gasps deeply and the euphoria rises in her, signals of the relief of survival received as a pleasure, for her, akin to the wake of orgasm. Between her steadying breaths, shivers and giggles at my attention across her soggy broiling body. I rein the cloth, jerk it against her sex and she laughs fearfully, bares down. She huffs and groans, final giggles and limbs flopping and sliding around. I am sick of the wretched floor. My knees could bleed. Her heels are raw. I want the comfort of the bed and her knot in my mouth. Whore.

We crawl and drag our way to the mattress, a pause of genuflection at the side, then climb up like cats into the bird’s unguarded nest. I settle down between her legs and she sinks into pillows.

Don’t you love me now…

//

March. The humble but dignified chapel swells with well-wishers, on-lookers alike.  
Afterwards the crowd spills out. I make for the copse of trees in the garden of the Cathedral. Remains of the old bell tower foundation growing ugly moss. My eyes burn and I blink away tears. The chivalry of heart gone. Hope’s brightest hues brushed away. Yet still one melancholy point of union remains. She is unhappy. So am I.  
I look back across to them, to him and the lot. To her. 

Hell, hell. Yet I’ll be calm. Now the dawn begins. And so the hand of fate, stretched to draw the veil and leave thee bare. Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell the fury, like the woman scorned.  
…

Across the garden our gazes lock. The party noise around me is drowned by the blood rushing in my ears. Dark eyes. Glaring. Tightness. I am suffocating.  
Anne is watching me. She’s waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and corrections welcome :)


End file.
